


Lines of Yours

by philalethia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Biting, Bondage, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, F/F, Face-Sitting, Femslash, Fingerfucking, Foot Jobs, Foot Massage, Frottage, Genderswap, Handcuffs, Marking, Masturbation, Painplay, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Sherlock, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 23:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2710370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philalethia/pseuds/philalethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John and Sherlock are female, and they have sex in lots of different ways. Each chapter will feature a different kink or trope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Phone Sex

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve received a few messages and comments about the lack of really kinky Johnlock femslash, and after sitting on the idea for several months, I decided to try my hand at filling the void.
> 
> So: one kink per chapter, starting pretty tame. I’m thinking of this fic as a filler project for when I get bored of other stories I’m working on, so updates might be a bit sporadic.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“Date went poorly, then?”

Sherlock, stretched out on her back on the sofa, didn’t even glance up from her magazine as she spoke. John wondered what had given it away. Her gait on the stairs, the way she had opened the door? Perhaps just the fact that it wasn’t yet nine o’clock and she was already home, although she’d be surprised if Sherlock paid attention to something as dull as how long John’s date had taken.

Whatever it was, Sherlock was spot-on as always.

“Not the best I’ve ever had,” John admitted, taking off her coat and hanging it up.

A little edge of bitterness crept into her tone. It was probably that more than the words themselves that led Sherlock to set the open magazine face-down on her chest and fix John with an unblinking gaze so intense she wanted to squirm under the weight of it.

“Something happened,” Sherlock said. “He said something to upset you. Something unexpected. You were optimistic about him. You packed a toothbrush, a small bottle of water-based lubrication, a vibrator, and extra condoms in your handbag; you had every intention of spending the night, yet—”

“No deductions about sex, Sherlock. Not on, remember?”

She was right, though. Of course. John was even wearing her purple lacy bra (itchy and a bit tight, but it made her tits look  _fantastic_ )and matching knickers and her grey fuck-me pumps. It all should have ended with John bent over some piece of furniture in his flat, moaning into her arm. Not hailing a cab at half eight, incensed and the slightest bit disappointed.

“What did he do?” Sherlock persisted. She was beginning to look irritated on John’s behalf, which was strangely flattering.

“Called it off.” John shrugged, kicking off her shoes. “Said he wasn’t interested in seeing me anymore. It’s weird, apparently, to have a girlfriend called John. He wanted to know why I couldn’t just go by Johanna.”

It wasn’t the first time that it had happened, or even the second or third. Men sometimes suspected John was transgender, as if that were an unthinkably awful thing to be—or they worried that, god forbid, they might be seen as queer if they dated someone called John. It weeded out the insecure and prejudiced arseholes before John got too attached, at least, but there was always at least a twinge of dismay.

Scoffing, Sherlock closed the magazine and tossed it onto the floor. “He’s an idiot. With a name like Jamie, he’s hardly one to judge.”

“Bradley!” John corrected, and although she sounded appropriately bothered, she wasn’t really surprised. Sherlock seemed fundamentally incapable of remembering who John was dating, and as a result, John had stopped expecting otherwise. “Jamie was… god, two boyfriends back, Sherlock.”

“Oh, what does it matter? He’s still an idiot.” She sat up with a deep scowl. “Names are entirely social constructs, arbitrarily seen as either feminine or masculine—”

“Yeah, I know,” John sighed. “Cheers. Just let me be disappointed in the world for a bit, and then I’ll move on.”

“You mean you’re going to  _masturbate_  for a bit, and then move on.”

Sherlock spat it as though it were some sort of dirty accusation, and John shot her a sharp scolding look as she bent to pick up her shoes so she could take them to her bedroom with her.

“ _Not on_ ,” John snapped, and strode towards the stairs without another word.

*

Again, though, Sherlock was right. Even if John’s date wouldn’t be getting her off tonight because he was too busy being a cock, she had every intention of getting herself off and being quite content with it.

Not immediately. First she had a shower and then watched a mindless reality programme on the telly before she went to bed, intent on having a long, satisfying wank before falling asleep.

Once John was upstairs, she took off her pyjamas and knelt on the bed, bending her elbows and laying her head down against the mattress. The position—her bottom in the air, the downward slope of her body, gravity making her breasts feel heavy—always got her in the mood, especially when she was alone. She could part her thighs and tip her arse up and think about the view from behind—the glimpse someone would get of her tight little arsehole and her pink cunt—without any self-consciousness or worry that her submissiveness, her whorishness, was giving anyone the wrong idea.

John stayed like that, relishing the sensation: the slow-growing warmth of arousal in her body, the beginnings of an insistent ache between her legs.

_Poor Bradley,_  she thought, with a little grin and a sinuous wiggle of her hips.  _If he weren’t such an arsehole, he might’ve had this._

He could have stood behind her and slipped into her before she was even fully wet. Rocked his cock into her until she was squirming and gasping, reaching between her thighs to touch herself as she was fucked nice and slow and deep.

With a soft groan at the thought, John crawled to the head of her bed and flopped down on her stomach. She squeezed her thighs together and sighed at the flicker of pleasure it granted her. She could feel herself getting damp now, and the urge to slide her hand beneath herself and hump it until she came was nearly irresistible.

_Shall I use a toy,_ she thought,  _or just my hands?_

Then her mobile rang.

The shrill trilling sound in the otherwise silent room startled her so much she jolted with a shout. She sat up, heart beating wildly, and lunged for her phone, which was charging on the bedside table. It trilled again as she grabbed it.

_Sherlock Holmes_ , said the screen.

_Really?_ John thought, and was momentarily tempted to ignore it. Except that, while Sherlock often relied on her phone to communicate even when they were both in the same flat—in the same room, sometimes—she always texted. She  _never_ phoned.

So John answered with a wary “Sherlock?” and reached for her pyjamas in case she needed to dress and rush downstairs.

Sherlock, however, sounded suspiciously composed, even cheerful. “Ah, good, you haven’t begun masturbating yet.”

“Sherlock,” John sighed, although it was pointless to force normal human decency on Sherlock when she was clearly determined not to bother with it. “What do you want?”

“To assist. Isn’t that obvious? Why else would I phone when I know very well that you’ll be masturbating?”

It had been ages since John had had the wind figuratively knocked out of her by a single comment. The sensation was even more disconcerting than she remembered. Like the little hourglass icon on her computer, her brain just spun and spun while John waited with waning patience for it to get on with it already.

“Assist,” she said finally. “While I masturbate? You realise I’m perfectly capable of managing on my own.”

“Of course you are. But, given the circumstances, I thought you might find this… preferable.”

“‘Given the circumstances’?” John frowned, puzzled. Then clarity dawned. “What, the bad date?”

“Yes.” Sherlock drew out the single syllable, and added a questioning lilt at the end. Suddenly John could hear the thread of self-consciousness in her tone, growing heavier the more she spoke. “I assure you I meant no offence in offering.”

“I know you didn’t. It’s just a bit—” Invasive? Rude? Baffling? “—not good,” John decided on.

She didn’t even know how to respond. What did one say when their best friend and flatmate offered to have phone sex with them? Probably something like  _‘Are you serious?’_ or  _‘No!’_ which John might’ve done if it had been anyone besides Sherlock.

But Sherlock was different. She had always been different. And John had a very keen sense that responding badly to this might have very negative ramifications on their friendship.

“What are you wearing?” Sherlock asked abruptly.

And John couldn’t help it. A giggle bubbled out of her mouth. “Really? You open with the most cliché line in phone sex history?”

“It’s useful.” Sherlock’s indignant scowl was audible in her voice. “How am I meant to assist if I don’t know the relevant details? I suspect you’re the type to undress completely, although I have no frame of—”

“You’re right.” John glanced down at herself: her largish breasts and wide hips and freshly trimmed pubic hair and shaved legs. “I took everything off.”

Sherlock had seen her in various states of undress, but never completely bare. John wondered if she had ever thought of it before. Was she downstairs now, in her armchair or sprawled about the sofa or perhaps in her own bed, picturing John’s nude body?

The idea was oddly… titillating.

“Excellent,” Sherlock said. The deep satisfaction in her tone made John shiver. “Lie down on your back, with your head on your pillow.”

John hesitated, licking her bottom lip as she considered.  _Am I actually doing this? Am I really going to have phone sex with Sherlock bloody Holmes?_ It was mad.

“John,” said Sherlock. “Trust me.”

And John did trust her. God help her, but she did.

She lay down exactly as Sherlock had instructed, keeping the phone pressed to her ear as Sherlock continued to speak.

“You derive a particular sort of pleasure from the human connection during sex that masturbation, obviously, lacks. Hopefully this will prove a satisfactory substitute. Although I’ll need data, of course. I can’t build bricks without clay.”

“What sort of data?” John imagined being told to measure her internal temperature, monitor her pulse, count how many times it took to thrust her fingers into herself before she broke and begged for more.

Again, the idea was oddly appealing. Perhaps this whole thing wouldn’t be as awkward as she had feared.

“Confirmation of your preferences,” Sherlock answered. “I could deduce them, of course. How often and how quickly your nipples harden during the day, your gait and body language when your sexual interest is aroused, common themes in your choice of pornography…. But I admit I’m not confident in my accuracy. Human sexuality is notoriously difficult to pin down.”

Which was a good thing, as far as John was concerned. Christ, had Sherlock really been keeping track of when John’s nipples hardened? John was no stranger to people staring at her tits, but to think of  _Sherlock_  doing it… it was hot. It was stupidly hot, actually.

With her free hand, John cupped her right breast, just feeling the size and shape of it. Her nipples were already partly hard, owing to how bloody cold her room always was, and she flicked her thumb over the tight little bud, encouraging it to tighten further.

“Sure,” she said, a bit breathily, which Sherlock no doubt could hear. But… Sherlock would hear a lot more before they were finished, wouldn’t she? “I can confirm my preferences.”

“You’re touching your breasts, aren’t you?” It was Sherlock’s interesting-piece-of-evidence tone. If John were a crime scene, Sherlock would probably be kneeling down to get a better look. “They’re sensitive. Exceedingly so, I suspect.”

“Oh yeah.” John flicked again, then trailed her thumb very, very slowly and softly around the areola. God, what she wouldn’t give for a warm, wet mouth to arch into. “ _Very_ sensitive. All the foreplay I need, really.”

“You don’t usually engage in ‘foreplay’ when you masturbate.”

Sherlock sounded disconcertingly confident about that. John couldn’t even imagine what had given it away.

“No, I don’t,” John agreed. “Don’t need to, when it’s just me. I usually just get right to the main event.”

“Mm,” said Sherlock. A noise of thoughtfulness? Interest? Agreement?

John wondered if Sherlock masturbated. Ever? Often? What did she like? What did she think of? Where did she do it—in her bed like John, in the shower, somewhere else? The entire concept—Sherlock as a sexual being, Sherlock with masturbatory habits—was so foreign; John couldn’t picture it.

“Where are you?” she found herself blurting, suddenly insatiably curious. Where in the flat did Sherlock Holmes go when she decided to initiate phone sex with her flatmate upstairs?

“Armchair in the sitting room. Yours, in fact.”

_My chair_. John couldn’t remember any time she had seen Sherlock in the red, lumpy armchair that John had claimed as her own. But she wasn’t given any time to ponder that.

“Do you get wet?” Sherlock asked.

_Wet_. It was so colloquial, so dirty. Sherlock talking dirty…. John’s knees bent, her toes curled. She imagined Sherlock saying other words: pussy, cock, fuck.  _God_ , she thought, teasing her nipple again, which was so tight and puckered now that it ached.

“Depends on the day,” she admitted. “Usually at least a little, though. Right now—”

John abandoned her breast in favour of dipping her hand between her parted thighs, and  _oh_  she was slick. Her pubic hair was damp and matted, and her fingers slipped easily along the outer folds of her labia.

“—oh yeah.” She laughed a little. “Yeah, I’m wet.”

There was a brief silence before Sherlock responded. “How wet?” Her voice was low, throaty, almost a rumble.

She was getting turned-on, John realised.  _John_ was turning her on.

She fought the urge to grin, to puff up with pride and preen. It was a heady feeling, like an adrenaline rush. Maybe Sherlock was getting wet too. Sitting downstairs in John’s chair, cupping herself through her trousers and making a mess of her knickers.

“ _Very_ wet,” John said. She couldn’t help but slide one finger into herself. Just the tip, barely past the first knuckle, but enough that she could feel how hot and slick she was inside, how easily she would open around, well, anything really. A cock, a toy, a set of long, long fingers. “Give me a bit, and it’ll be all the way to my thighs. You’ve caught me on a good day, apparently.”

“You—” Another pause, as though Sherlock had to gather herself. Christ, when had Sherlock  _ever_ stuttered when she wasn’t shamming? “You’re penetrating yourself. You enjoy penetration, then, I take it?”

John laughed, surprised. “How the hell did you know I’m—actually no, on second thought, don’t tell me. Yes, I’m quite fond of penetration.”

She slipped her finger in deeper, considered crooking it and rubbing at her G-spot… but no, no playing with her G-spot today. Assuming her body cooperated, she’d soon need a toy and the use of both hands, and it wouldn’t be quick at all—somewhere close to an hour of John shaking and sweating and making all sorts of embarrassing noises that Sherlock would have to strain to hear, if she had any interest in hearing them at all.

“And… the rest?” Sherlock asked.

“‘The rest’?” As she repeated it, though, John understood. “Oh. The rest of the things I like, you mean? It’s a long list. Not sure I have the patience right now to go through it all. What I’m most keen on at the moment is the tip of a middle finger against my clit.”

A burst of static, like Sherlock had blown into the receiver. “Directly against it?”

“Depends. Sometimes yes. I pull the hood back and sort of flick my fingertip over it. Other times, it’s… well, too sensitive for that.” Like it was now, John suspected and slid her finger from her pussy to check.

Oh, yes. Her clit was swollen, a warm little knob nestled between her labia, peeking from its hood. Putting her finger directly over it made her thigh muscles twitch unpleasantly.

“So I’ll give it a rub from the side,” John continued, and did just that, slotting her fingertip to the right of her clit and making a slow, gentle circle. That was better. Loads better. John sucked in a sharp breath and had to remind herself to keep talking. “Or the top.” She tried that too, although it wasn’t as good. She didn’t even finish a full circle before she was moving on. “Sometimes the bottom.”

That was it: her fingertip resting just beneath her clit, making little upwards flicking motions, barely grazing the sensitive bud. It felt as though sparks were raining down her thighs, leaving trails of warmth in their path. She dropped her knees to either side, opening herself wider, and nearly lost her grip on the phone.

“Christ,” she said around a gasp. It always surprised her. How many years had she been masturbating now, and still every time she did, she was still caught off guard by how glorious it felt. Why did she ever leave her bed? Why didn’t she do this all the bloody time? “Oh my  _god_.”

“John.” Sherlock sounded awed.

And didn’t that just do her head in. Sherlock Holmes awed by Johanna Watson. If she were here, she would be staring down at John, rapt: her lips parted with interest, her eyes wide. John’s body a crime scene, and Sherlock fascinated, devoted to taking it apart bit by bit and sniffing out its secrets.

“Fuck,” John said, more breath than voice. Her hand moved faster, and she moaned softly as her finger slipped, breaking her rhythm and losing her sweet spot. She felt her lower back begin to arch and her legs begin to tense in frustration. Oh god, she wanted it. She wanted—

“Roll over,” Sherlock said. “That’s how you usually orgasm, isn’t it?”

John stopped, breathless and confused. “How do you know how I usually orgasm?” she asked, although she was already obeying: heaving herself onto one elbow and then flipping onto her front.

“Your bed. It makes a low groaning noise when you masturbate. I was curious, so I… I tested it—movements and positions—until I found the best match. On your stomach, thrusting your hips in short vigorous motions.”

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John groaned.

It was not good, she knew. An utter invasion of privacy and just generally creepy besides, but right then it seemed a great deal more erotic than offensive. She could picture Sherlock face-down in the centre of her bed, dragging her palm down her body until it was cupping her vulva—just as John was doing now. Sherlock, who couldn’t be arsed to remember the solar system or the prime minister, humping her own hand because she wanted to know how John preferred to get herself off. Because she’d been  _listening_  to John getting herself off.

“Oh god,” John sighed, and rocked against her palm.

Her cunt was so wet now that she was practically slippery. Her fingers dipped past her outer labia and glided over her clit like silk, just enough friction to be sweet. John rocked again, more slowly this time, and lost herself for several long moments like that, aware of nothing but the soft noises of her own wetness and the hot, insistent pulse between her thighs.

Eventually, she realised she had let the phone drift from her mouth and buried her face in her pillow. If Sherlock could hear anything any longer, it was only the scratching of the fabric against the receiver. John hastily lifted her head again and mumbled, “Sorry, sorry.”

But Sherlock only shushed her. “It’s fine, John. Whatever you need. Make yourself come.”

_‘Come,’_ John thought, shuddering.  _Sherlock just said ‘come.’_

Then she didn’t give a toss about going slow or relishing. She gripped the phone tightly in one hand and held the other perfectly still and stiff against the mattress while she rutted against it. Drove her palm roughly into her pubic bone and nearly sobbed at the firm, blissful pressure against her clit.

Vaguely, John felt beads of sweat forming on her back and temples, and, even more vaguely, she heard the mattress begin to groan as her hips snapped faster, making the whole bed shake. Sherlock could hear that. Over the phone and also just sitting downstairs, listening and knowing that John was up here fucking her own hand like the insatiable tart that she was.

“Oh, John,” said Sherlock, like she knew that John was thinking of her, and it was the same awed tone as before. As though John having it off by herself upstairs was something mind-blowing, something worthy of her fascination.

And just like that, John’s cunt began to throb as her orgasm hit. “Fuck,” she moaned, and stopped humping immediately, moving her hips instead in tiny stuttering pulses so she could bask in it. The intoxicating wave of warmth and the tremors passing through her. “Oh god, that’s good. Oh,  _fuck_.”

Before she knew it, she was dropping the phone on the pillow—because fuck it, this was John’s party, and Sherlock could wait a bit—so that one hand could join the other between her thighs, rubbing her labia against her swollen oversensitive clit, chasing a second orgasm. It came surprisingly easily, and then she was panting and groaning into the pillow as her cunt began to throb anew and a crest of pleasure rocked her until she was shaking and half-senseless.

“Please,” she said, loving how breathless, helpless, and irresistible she sounded when she begged. “Please, fuck me.”

Oh, she’d love that too. Something nice and thick sinking into her pussy—which was sopping wet now, soaking the sheets beneath her—while the aftershocks still rolled through her. She was lifting onto her elbows, considering reaching for the bedside table where she kept her dildo, when she recalled exactly what she had been doing and why.

_Did you honestly just forget that you were in the middle of phone sex with your flatmate?_ John thought, baffled and mortified. She hurriedly scooped up her mobile from the pillow.  _You complete clot_.  _No one’s mind should be_ that  _addled by one fucking orgasm._

“Sorry,” she said into the receiver. “That, um… sorry.”

A short silence, and then Sherlock said, “That’s… quite all right.” She sounded off, almost spooked. In any other situation, John might’ve thought she’d been shaken by something. “That was enjoyable?”

“Er.” John blinked, taken aback. This wasn’t exactly how she imagined the encounter would turn out. Although, now that she really thought about it, she wasn’t sure what she had been expecting. In fact, now she wondered why she’d consented to this at all.

_You were thinking with your cunt_ , she thought scornfully,  _as well as listening to Sherlock. Of all the things that have got you into trouble in your life, those are the most common. So, well done, Watson._

“Yeah,” she admitted eventually. No point in denying it, was there? “Yeah, it was… nice.”

“Good.” Sherlock’s tone was clipped now, perfunctory. Awkwardness all around, then. Perhaps Sherlock had been thinking with her cunt as well. That was a comforting thought—a bit sexy, too. “You’ll want to sleep now, I assume?”

“Erm.”  _What about you?_ John wanted to ask.  _Have you already got yourself off while I wasn’t paying attention? Did you even want to get yourself off in the first place?_ In the end, though, she decided not to. No need to make this any more awkward than it already was. “Yeah. Sleep is… sleep would be good.”

“Mm. Good night,” said Sherlock, and rung off without another word.

John lowered her phone, frowning. A shit date, a bizarre and invasive flatmate, two spectacular orgasms, and she had no idea what to make of any of it.

“Well,” she said wryly. “Good night to you too. You confusing git.”

 


	2. Dirty Talk (Part One)

John smelt of it the next morning.

She shuffled down the stairs and then stood behind Sherlock’s chair in the kitchen, making tea and positively _reeking_ of sex: the faint tang of dried sweat and the much stronger musk of vaginal lubrication.

Turned away from John, her face obscured by her microscope, Sherlock inhaled as deeply as she dared, savouring the scent. Not the first time that she’d caught a whiff of John’s tell-tale post-masturbatory odour, but the first time that she could claim to have played a part in making John smell that way.

Oh, John. Glorious John. John who only a matter of hours ago had allowed Sherlock to listen as she touched herself, brought herself to orgasm while she swore to herself and begged an imaginary someone to _‘Please, fuck me.’_

That had haunted Sherlock all night. It would haunt her for months, she suspected.

“Do we need to talk about last night?” John said abruptly, the first words she’d spoken since coming downstairs.

There was a soft noise like glass being ground to bits. Sherlock blinked and realised she’d turned the knob on her microscope too far and rammed the objective lens into the slide she was meant to be focusing on.

She sat back, tossing her fringe from her face. It was getting too long, nearly to her shoulders now: in need of a trim. “Of course not. What’s there to talk about?”

_Don’t_ , she begged silently.

Sherlock still didn’t know what she had been thinking last night. Over an hour on her computer reading everything she could find on Bradley O’Connor, John’s disastrous date of the evening, and by the time John had announced, “Well, I’m for bed,” and gone off to masturbate, what Sherlock had deduced about Mr O’Connor (controlling, quick to anger, prevailing tendency to objectify women) had left her feeling rather… impaired.

Everything had happened very quickly after that.

“Oh, I dunno,” John said loftily.

Giving in to temptation, Sherlock half turned her head, eyeing John in her peripheral vision. She was tipping the kettle of boiling water into her RAMC mug, not seeming to care about Sherlock at all. Sucking in one final deep breath of John’s sex-soaked scent, Sherlock returned to her microscope.

Only to raise her head again in shock when, a moment later, John continued. “Thought we might try again, actually, if you’re interested. Maybe without the phones this time. It wasn’t really a ‘satisfactory substitute’ like you said. If you were… dunno, in the room maybe, it might be more of a ‘human connection,’ you know?”

Sherlock scarcely even breathed, staring stupidly at the wall without really seeing it. John couldn’t have meant what it seemed; Sherlock could not fathom a world in which John Watson invited her to be physically present while she masturbated. Yet her tone was the falsely light, casual one she adopted when she knew very well the gravity of what she was suggesting and wanted to soften the potentially negative impact. She understood.

She understood, and still she was offering it.

“Anyway,” John said. There was the soft chinking of a spoon against the rim of her mug. “Just a thought.”

“Yes,” Sherlock blurted. Far, far too loudly, almost a shout. _You clot_ , she thought, wincing. _Overeagerness is not a desirable quality._ If John rescinded her offer, Sherlock would hardly be surprised.

But John only said, “Oh. All right.”

Then, her tea made, she left the kitchen without another word.

*

“You’re nervous,” John said.

It was a gross understatement. Sherlock suspected that the emotion rolling and rattling through her was something more akin to terror than mere nervousness. She hovered in John’s open doorway like a rude and unwelcome guest, feeling even more gangly and coltish than usual as she stared at the vague outline of John’s nude form beneath the duvet.

Yes, she thought, she was certainly terrified. Terrified and awkward and out of her depth and very glad she’d elected to come upstairs fully dressed. The last thing John needed—lovely, perfect John—was to witness Sherlock’s small pointy breasts, thin and bony hips, and frankly frightful pubic hair, which was just as overlong, curly, and unkempt as the hair on Sherlock’s head.

Still, Sherlock did her best to swallow her fear and lift her chin confidently. “Of course I’m not.”

John’s smile said she wasn’t fooled. She patted the mattress invitingly. “No of course not. Come here.”

Sherlock went, crossing the room in clumsy, shuffling steps. John scooted to the side, making room for Sherlock to sit beside her. As she moved, the duvet slipped off her shoulders, exposing her breasts.

They were perfect, gorgeous things. Full and heavy, E cups at least. Pale stretch marks spanned the sides like shallow rivers. Her areolae were large, her nipples soft but beginning to tighten slowly in the cool air.

Sherlock ached with the desire to put her mouth on them and help them along. Never, in the two years that she had been longing silently, had Sherlock been more aware of how attractive John Watson was. No one else could possibly compare.

_You’re not going to make this into something it’s not_ , Sherlock reminded herself. This was John being open and sexually adventurous, possibly lonely as well, and Sherlock being desperate and stupid. This was not sex, not really. Sherlock would _not_ delude herself into thinking that it was.

But even as she thought it, she knew that she was fooling herself. The illogical, sentimental portion of her brain would insist that whatever John did right now in her presence very much _was_ sex. And not only that, but the sort of sex that meant John was hers and wouldn’t bring another string of dull, undeserving men into the flat while Sherlock sat on the sofa and watched and seethed.

It would be fine, though. Sherlock would accept the consequences, however unpleasant.

As soon as Sherlock had sat, leaning her back against the headboard, John reached out with one arm and tugged at the sleeve of Sherlock’s white shirt.

“You can take this off, you know. The trousers too.”

A spectacularly bad idea. One that Sherlock couldn’t believe John had just suggested. She shook her head, and John’s sigh was tinged with undeniable disappointment, which confused Sherlock even more.

“All right,” John said. “Well, at least budge down a bit? So you’re not so much like a bloody gargoyle looking down at me?”

Sherlock shimmied lower on the mattress until only her shoulders and head were propped against the headboard. John smiled, wide and sweet, and the sight made Sherlock’s heart valves flutter like a pair of wings.

“Thank you,” said John. She rolled to face Sherlock and lifted onto one elbow. Her breasts plumped and pressed together; Sherlock tried not to stare, and only partly succeeded. “So…?”

Right. Sherlock was meant to be providing assistance, not gawking uselessly. She inhaled deeply, gathering the threads of her frazzled focus. “So… you prefer to start with your breasts, yes?”

“Usually, yeah.” John’s smile became distinctly flirtatious. Sherlock had seen that smile countless times over their acquaintance, but never directed towards her. It was… more striking than Sherlock had expected. “Although I’m a little more adaptable when another person’s involved.”

Sherlock refused to let her eyes widen, although her surprise was considerable. The cheeky comment, the flirty smile….

Before she could contemplate any further, John flopped onto her back and kicked off the covers, baring the full length of her nude body. Sherlock’s throat went dry. Thick, muscled thighs, wide hips, dimples on her upper thighs. Her light-coloured pubic hair had been trimmed close to the skin; someone less observant than Sherlock might have assumed it was stubble grown back after a shave.

Sherlock wanted to trail her fingers through the short strands, cup John’s vulva gently, and feel the labia grow slick as John ground against Sherlock’s palm.

Sherlock became abruptly aware that she could feel her pulse between her legs, which pounded harder as John covered her nipples with her hands and squeezed. The creamy, supple skin of her breasts shivered at the touch, and John tipped her head back against the pillow, closing her eyes with a pleased sigh.

What was she imagining, Sherlock wondered. Someone else’s touch in place of her own, maybe a warm mouth pressing soft sucking kisses to her cleavage?

Reason was abandoning her, being swiftly overtaken by lust. Sherlock slid down even farther on the bed, turning so that she was lying on her side next to John, close enough that she could bow her head and nuzzle the top of John’s if she dared—which she didn’t.

“Arch up,” she murmured, and John obeyed immediately: curving her lower back and thrusting her breasts forwards wantonly, shuddering with a breathy noise of pleasure. “Oh, you like that, don’t you? Displaying yourself for anyone to see?”

John’s eyes opened, and she dropped her cheek to the pillow, meeting Sherlock’s eye and licking her lips. She nodded, squeezing her breasts again. “A bit, yeah.” She dragged her fingers against her flesh, drawing closer and closer to her nipples until she was pinching them. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she arched higher. “Makes me feel… mm. Hot.”

_Hot_. Understatement. She was breath-taking, sinful. Sherlock craved her worse than cocaine. There was little she wouldn’t have given in that moment to smooth John’s messy blondeish fringe from her forehead and lick a neat line from her sternum to her pubis.

But no. _You’re not a participant_ , Sherlock reminded herself. _You’re a tool, nothing more._

“You know what I like most?” said John, with a breathless chuckle. “Someone touching my tits through my shirt. Or my bra, a dress… any piece of clothing, really.”

Oh, yes. The friction of the fabric against her sensitive nipples. It probably felt heavenly. Sherlock wanted to moan, but tried to rein in the urge. When she spoke, she was relieved to hear only a thin thread of desire in her voice, not the flood that she was feeling. “I bet your dates love that, don’t they? They don’t even need—”

John flinched, her facial muscles contorting, and Sherlock left immediately off with a fervent mental swear. Of course John wouldn’t want to be reminded of the men she’d dated now, when she was no doubt still smarting slightly from the last one. Thoughtless of Sherlock to bring them up. _Stupid_.

“Erm,” John said. “You do know this was all, um… well, my attempt at propositioning you, yeah?”

Sherlock stared, dumbfounded. An explosion, the windows shattering, the roof caving in and killing them both, would be less momentous, less mind-boggling. As John had said numerous times, after all, she was not gay, she was not like her sister, she and Sherlock were friends and flatmates and nothing more, why did everyone always assume they were having sex. And now she was “propositioning” Sherlock—verb, “to make a suggestion of sexual intercourse to someone with whom one is not sexually involved.” Sherlock’s mind spun and spun, and still she couldn’t fathom how they had come to this point.

“You didn’t know,” said John, looking concerned. “Okay. Might’ve been a bit too subtle, I suppose. I didn’t want to—”

Sherlock kissed her. Had wanted to do for ages, and didn’t even bother to resist now that the opportunity had been granted. Because they were having sex, apparently, and for John at least kissing was part of sex; she often returned from her dates with chapped lips and— _No_ , Sherlock thought, _no, no more men_.

John tasted of spearmint toothpaste. She’d brushed her teeth before coming upstairs for bed. Sherlock suckled tenderly at her bottom lip, relishing the taste and the way that John giggled into her mouth, cupped Sherlock’s cheeks in her hands, and trailed her fingers down Sherlock’s jawline. Sweet girl. Sherlock’s girl. So small and warm and soft.

Then Sherlock realised that she mustn’t be groping her breasts any longer, if she was stroking Sherlock’s face, and that was unacceptable. Unthinkable.

When she pulled back, John let out a quiet “uhn” of protest and tried to follow, but Sherlock shook her head. “Shh. Not now, John. Show me how you touch yourself. I want to watch. No more men.”

That hadn’t come out right. Being propositioned for sex wasn’t the same as being offered a monogamous relationship; Sherlock only had the right to not bring up the subject of men during sex, not to dictate that John would never have sex with men again. (Although Sherlock would love to dictate that. She’d even be willing to do all of Mycroft’s legwork from now on if he would agree to make it a bloody law.)

But before she could clarify, John nodded. “No more men. All right.”

She didn’t return to fondling her breasts as Sherlock had intended. Instead, she dipped her left hand between her thighs. There was none of the _‘tip of a middle finger against my clit’_ like she’d said the other night; she only covered her vulva with her hand and dug her palm downwards, exerting a pressure that must’ve felt exquisite, since she went sloe-eyed and managed a breathy sob. Her hips bucked weakly, and her breasts bounced.

She was beautiful. It hurt Sherlock to look at her.

Quite literally, in fact. The pulsing in Sherlock’s groin had grown so strong it toed the line between pleasure and pain, edging closer and closer to the latter as the seconds passed.

Resolute, she shoved the sensation to the back of her consciousness, focusing entirely on John, who was still thrusting against the heel of her palm. Her cunt made moist smacking sounds, reminiscent of a wet kiss, every time her hips fell back to the mattress.

“You’re wet,” Sherlock said. An inane comment, but she was too awed to hold it in. They’d done nothing so far. John had pawed at her pretty breasts and let Sherlock kiss her, and already she was so wet that Sherlock could _hear_ it.

Grimacing, John stilled. “Yeah. Sorry—”

“ _Sorry?_ ”

Sherlock nearly bared her teeth in a snarl. That anyone should’ve made John feel she had to apologise for the natural effects of her arousal—Sherlock would tear them to bits. She bent closer, nuzzled at the side of John’s head, where her hair was tucked haphazardly behind her ear, although she kept her hands to herself, unwilling to risk ruining the precious tableau.

John gasped, cocking her head to give Sherlock more room.

Sherlock kissed the lobe of her ear sweetly, then growled into it. “If either of us should be sorry, it’s me. I’m going to _ruin_ your knickers, John. Now I know how easy it is to turn you on, there won’t be a day you aren’t sopping wet. I’ll be snogging you against walls and doors, bending you over furniture, sucking at your nipples through your jumpers until even your trousers are drenched.”

John let out another “uhn,” louder this time, and hooked one leg over Sherlock’s, spreading herself. Sherlock glanced down and watched her fingers sink past her labia, where the skin was dark pink and shining, slippery. The tip of John’s middle finger flicked teasingly over the clitoris, and Sherlock shuddered in sympathy as John moaned.

“You’ll be begging for it constantly,” Sherlock murmured. She could smell John, that same tang and musk she’d smelt that morning, although it was more potent now. Fresh. “Spreading your legs for me at all hours of the day. Mm. Maybe you _should_ apologise for that. I’ll never get any work done. I’ll be too busy licking your cunt and letting you rub off on my hip.”

“Oh,” John said, a little helpless whine in her voice. Her toes curled.

Then she sat up, her hair a mess, and gestured shakily. “Can you… sorry, I just—”

Sherlock understood immediately and hurried to comply. John’s vibrator, a small stainless-steel bullet, was in the drawer of her bedside table: right at the top, easily accessible, as was the bottle of cleaning spray on its side just beside the toy. The metal was cold, so after Sherlock had cleaned it she clasped it firmly in her hand, warming it.

When she passed it over, John didn’t just grab the vibrator but Sherlock’s hand as well, which she dragged between her thighs. Any lingering thought Sherlock might have had about keeping her distance and not touching dissipated when she felt the hot slick skin of John’s pussy against her fingertips.

It was considerably wetter than she’d expected. Certainly wetter than Sherlock had ever got, even when she was both physically aroused _and_ in the middle of menstruation. She petted gently along the inner labia, marvelling at how easily she gathered wetness on her fingers as she did, and then John angled her hips upwards and used her hand to coax Sherlock’s to where she was wettest and drooling more wetness still.

_Oh god_ , Sherlock thought, awed. Aloud, she said, “You meant the dildo, not the vibrator.”

John chuckled. “A bit, yeah. But that’s okay. You’ll do quite nicely.”

Stupid. Sherlock, who always became bored by the sensation of being penetrated, had forgotten that possibility entirely. But now she circled her index finger slowly around John’s entrance, feeling how needy and hungry it was. It quivered at Sherlock’s touch, so empty and desperate to be filled.

So Sherlock filled it, slipping two fingers easily inside. She swallowed a whine when John’s muscles immediately clenched around her, savouring her, trying to keep her inside.

“Fuck,” John said. It was little more than a huff of breath, barely even a whisper. She undulated, drove Sherlock’s fingers in as deep as they would go, until she was rubbing her cunt against Sherlock’s knuckles and soaking them as well. “Oh fuck, that’s good. Could you, mm, angle upwards? Maybe curl your fingers a bit?”

Sherlock did, and knew the moment that she’d found the right angle and position. John sucked in a tremulous breath and undulated again and again, fucking herself in little shallow pulses while Sherlock stayed perfectly still, staring in silent wonder, and let her.

“There, right there,” John said, beginning to pant. She peered into Sherlock’s face through half-lidded eyes, and bit her bottom lip as her pussy clenched again and grew even slicker. Sherlock could feel the wetness oozing over her own knuckles. “Is that okay? How do I look?”

It seemed an odd question at first, and then Sherlock saw the playful curve of John’s lip. John knew very well how gorgeous she looked, how gorgeous she _felt_ , and that Sherlock was lying here worshipping her, enamoured of her. John had always been confident of her sexuality. She was a minx. A tease.

Sherlock _adored_ her.

She rolled over, throwing one leg over one of John’s and half-pinning John to the mattress. “You know exactly how you look,” she said, her voice gone rough with desire. “You beautiful, filthy woman.”

“Yes.” John drew out the _s_ in a hiss and turned her body towards Sherlock so she could grind her cunt more easily against Sherlock’s hand. “Yes, that’s it. Tell me I’m a whore. I like that.”

It hurt, the rush of lust that swept through Sherlock’s body at that. Her clit throbbed, swollen and oversensitive, and she couldn’t resist squeezing her thighs together, giving it a hint of satisfaction.

“You’re a whore,” Sherlock said, gritting her teeth as the pleasure rocked through her and tried to rattle her thoughts entirely. “Look at you. I don’t even have to move. You’re doing all the work, fucking yourself on my cock like a good little whore.”

“You don’t,” John began, then had to pause to catch her breath. Her breasts heaved and her thighs were tense, but still she kept penetrating herself, albeit less eagerly than before. “You don’t have to talks about cocks, you know.”

_Don’t I?_ Sherlock thought. John was straight, after all. Well, perhaps bisexual, considering this most recent development, but until now she’d seemed quite content to be seen as a straight woman. And Sherlock was reasonably sure that straight women liked cocks.

“I mean,” John continued quickly, “if you like that sort of thing, that’s fine. Just as long as you’re not doing it because you think I want it. I’m just as keen on cunts, actually, and I’m very happy to be fucked by things that aren’t cocks.”

Definitely bisexual, then. And although Sherlock’s hopes soared, she would need time to acclimate. She’d spent entirely too long wishing she had a cock so that she would be capable of satisfying John’s need for one.

For the time being, though, she set the whole issue aside to be re-evaluated later and, with a vigorous few thrusts of her fingers into John’s sopping cunt, enticed John into fucking herself properly again until she was panting just as harshly as before.

“Of course you are,” Sherlock said. “Such a slut, you’ll put anything in you, won’t you?”

John’s eyelids fluttered, and she craned her neck towards Sherlock, opening her mouth as though begging to be kissed. But, struck with sudden inspiration, Sherlock laid her free palm against John’s forehead and held her down. John’s cry was rapturous, and another stream of wetness dribbled from her pussy.

“Luckily for you,” said Sherlock, “I have _very_ strong hands. You can have them any time you want them. In the flat, in a taxi, in the loo at Scotland Yard. I’ll fuck you at a crime scene if you need me to. Let everyone see what a wanton tart you are.”

“Oh.” John’s jaw dropped, her pretty mouth forming a perfect O. She was snapping her hips almost violently now, fucking herself in quick jabs. Her breasts bounced beautifully with every one. “Oh god, Sherlock. Please.”

“Please what?” Sherlock grinned, feeling giddy. She had reduced John to begging with nothing but her fingers and her voice. Apparently, it was _well_ within her ability to satisfy John sexually.

Hers. John could be _hers_.

Would be hers. Sherlock swore it.

But John only said, “Please,” again, and Sherlock understood.

“You just like listening to yourself beg, don’t you? Pretty whore. I’ll make you beg until you’re hoarse. Put my tongue in your cunt and suck at your clit until the only words you know are ‘Please’ and ‘Sherlock.’ I’ll make you cry my name, John. Mrs Hudson will have to invest in a white noise machine. The walls will shake with your cries.”

John moaned, her whole body giving one strong shudder. Then the muscles in her left arm flexed, and the room filled with a quiet buzzing. The bullet vibrator. Sherlock had almost forgotten.

“Yes,” she said, scooting backwards slightly so John had more room to manoeuvre. “Show me how you like it. Right up against your clit, or is it too strong for that?”

It wasn’t, apparently. John nudged one rounded tip against the side and let out a throaty sob. Her cunt clenched around Sherlock’s fingers, as powerful as a shockwave.

“Oh, I felt that,” Sherlock said. “Gorgeous whore, with your sweet, sweet cunt.”

Another sob, louder this time. John was sweating, her hair damp around her temples, and her feet kicked uselessly, probably involuntarily. John was close, Sherlock realised. She was actually about to witness John Watson orgasm.

It was indescribable, the burst of emotion, sensation, thought, _something_ that that realisation brought with it. Sherlock bowed down before it and lost herself in it. Clutched John to her as close as she could without getting in the way, cradled John’s head against her clavicle.

“Come on,” she urged. “Be a good slut for me. Fuck yourself harder. I want you to soak my hand. I want to lick your come from my fingers.”

With a wavering moan, John ground down onto Sherlock’s fingers. She was riding Sherlock’s hand now so forcefully that the friction of her pubic hair against Sherlock’s skin began to burn and the muscles in Sherlock’s fingers threatened to cramp.

She hardly cared, especially when she felt John’s cunt begin to flutter around her, the muscles rapidly tightening and loosening, trying to suck her fingers in deeper and keep them there, milking them. And through it all, John bit her bottom lip and whined low and long, her movements slowing to a gentle rocking that somehow, inexplicably, affected Sherlock even more than the frantic thrusting.

John had just come. Sherlock had made her come.

Sherlock’s own pussy ached and throbbed like a forming bruise, and she felt wetter than she’d ever been before. Enough that she could feel her knickers clinging to her and her labia dragging slickly over her clit as she squeezed her thighs together.

As soon as she heard John flip the vibrator off, Sherlock slipped her fingers gently out and brought them to her mouth.

John’s taste was… _familiar_. Similar to Sherlock’s own, but slightly less pungent and with an aftertaste that was almost sweet, unlike Sherlock’s distinctly salty one.

Sherlock moaned around her fingers and squeezed her thighs together even more tightly.

“Can I help?” John asked.

Realising that she’d closed her eyes to better appreciate the taste, Sherlock opened them again and blinked at John’s hesitant expression. She felt dazed, as little flickers of almost painful warmth washed through her cunt.

“Can I help?” John repeated. “Is there anything I can do?”

Sherlock shook her head dumbly. She was too turned-on, her genitals too sensitised. Any direct touch, especially another person’s, would be too much. She hardly needed anything, really. Just a few more squeezes and the memory of John pulsing around her, coming on her hand.

“You sure? Not even this?”

John offered her hand, and Sherlock didn’t even have to look to know why. She could _smell_ it. God, that smell. If Sherlock could nuzzle at the slit of John’s pussy every morning, she thought she might never have a black mood again.

Groaning, Sherlock abandoned her own hand in favour of John’s and wasted no time sucking John’s fingers into her mouth, lapping up the wetness that coated John’s skin in a thick, sticky layer. John sidled closer, until their bodies were pressed together, and Sherlock laid a hand on John’s hip, gripping hard enough that she could feel the hard curve of John’s ileum crest.

_Say you’re mine_ , she thought but didn’t dare say, not yet. _Tell me you belong to me. Please, oh god,_ please, _John_.

Two more strong rhythmic squeezes of her thighs, and Sherlock was coming too, whimpering around John’s fingers and clutching at John’s hip. The orgasm was small in terms of strength, but it lingered, sending wave after languid wave of pleasure through her until her knees shook and she worried she might literally cry if it went on any longer.

Dimly, she heard John muttering, “Jesus, Sherlock. You are so fucking gorgeous.” John bent her forefinger, pressing Sherlock’s tongue to the bottom of her mouth. A controlling, demanding gesture with at least an edge of possessiveness.

_Good enough_ , Sherlock thought, and continued to suckle sweetly at John’s fingers as she came down.


	3. Semi-Public Sex

For all that John loved the thrill of a case, she hated the aftermath, which usually involved either sitting in Greg’s office and lying through her bloody (sometimes literally) teeth or sitting in Greg’s office and being scolded like a child.

Or rather, as was the case today, standing with her back against one of Greg’s filing cabinets while Sherlock was scolded, which wasn’t much better than being scolded herself. In some ways, it was actually worse because John’s hackles rose more quickly when Sherlock was involved, and she tended to grind her teeth, biting back snappish responses, so forcefully that her jaw ached for the rest of the day.

“You can’t keep withholding evidence,” Greg was saying now. His voice seemed to boom in the small room. “When I call you onto a case, Sherlock, you are under _my_ authority—”

And through it all, Sherlock sat across from him with such an inscrutable expression that John had no doubt that all she heard was “blah blah blah.”

Torturous. Absolutely bloody torturous.

And not helped at all by the fact that Sherlock’s hair was still windblown from the chase, her coat dirt-flecked and dishevelled, and she smelt faintly of gunpowder and smoke. She was gorgeous. It was distracting.

It had never been distracting before. A side effect, John assumed, of having sex with her. She should’ve expected this, really. The last (only) two women John had had sex with she had lost her sodding head over, far worse than any of the men she’d dated. Why should Sherlock be any different, especially considering how, well, fixated on Sherlock she had already been?

Stupid. John was going to get her heart broken again at this rate.

When Greg eventually paused his diatribe to take a breath, Sherlock jumped in: “Separation’s not going well, I take it?”

And John decided she’d best get out of the blast zone as soon as possible. Greg was being unusually tetchy, and Sherlock was… Sherlock.

“Sorry, just need the ladies’!” she called as she made for the door. “Back in a tick.”

The women’s toilets were deserted, as they usually were. Less women on staff at the Met, John supposed, or at least not many in this part of the building.

She used the toilet and was washing her hands when the door banged open and Sherlock strode in, all but strutting with her coat unbuttoned and her hands in her pockets.

“That didn’t take long.” John turned off the tap, then flicked the water from her hands into the sink. “Did Greg decide not to bother—”

She cut off with a yelp when Sherlock grasped her by the biceps and walked her to the far-left cubicle, where she proceeded to lock them both inside.

“What the hell—”

“Shh,” Sherlock said, backing her up against the wall so she could crush their bodies together and loom over John. Her gaze was hot, with the same sort of intensity she usually reserved for corpses and severed body parts, except that now there was an edge of hunger to it. She looked quite capable of devouring John alive.

John’s pulse spiked, and she went silent, waiting.

“In the loo,” Sherlock said slowly, “at Scotland Yard. Remember?”

John did. Hard to forget, really. Over the last week and a half, she had spent probably far too much time recalling little snippets of Sherlock’s dirty talk in random idle moments, including the bit about fucking John in the loo at Scotland Yard.

“Didn’t realise you actually meant it,” she said. “You also said something about having me at a crime scene in front of everyone.”

“And I would do, if you wanted it.” Sherlock ducked her head to nuzzle at John’s shoulder, just above where—under the layers of her vest, jumper, and coat—her scar was hidden. The closest Sherlock had come to paying it any attention, although John suspected that doing so now was unintentional. “I could cover you with my coat—”

And, as though she needed to illustrate, she straightened up again and tugged on her lapels so her coat billowed open and then fell, draping over John’s body as well as her own. She slotted a hand between John’s thighs, cupping John’s vulva through her trousers. The tip of her middle finger pressed at the seam right where John’s cunt was, and with an involuntary “uhn,” John spread her legs wider and rocked into the teasing touch.

“—and then fuck you just like this,” Sherlock said. She wasn’t even blinking, staring into John’s face like she couldn’t bear to miss so much as a facial twitch. “Would you like that?”

John bit her lip, holding back another moan, and shook her head.

“No,” said Sherlock. “Of course not. Too public for you, isn’t it? Appeals too much to a sense of humiliation, not enough to the _thrill_.” The pressure against John’s entrance lightened as Sherlock dragged the heel of her palm down John’s pubic bone and over her clit; John’s knees trembled and nearly buckled at the sweet, sweet pressure. “You thrive on danger, like the danger that someone might walk in right now—”

Too much talking. John thought Sherlock’s attention could be better spent on something other than running her mouth, so she set about shutting her up with a kiss. The moment their lips touched, Sherlock fairly melted, falling forwards and crushing John back against the wall and driving her palm even more forcefully into John’s groin.

Which was lovely. John stopped being able to return the kiss just as soon as she’d started it, and just stood with her head tipped back, gasping and rocking into Sherlock’s hand as Sherlock brushed her lips again and again against John’s slackened mouth.

And when John had tired of that, which didn’t take long, she gently shoved Sherlock one step backwards and reached for her own zip.

She meant to drop trou entirely, but once her trousers were open and her jumper rucked up to her ribs, exposing the front of her knickers (plain grey cotton ones, she hadn’t planned on being shagged today), Sherlock slid a hand inside them—taking up the same position as before, except that now she was cupping John’s bare skin, and when she pressed in with her middle finger, it slipped past John’s labia and very nearly inside John’s cunt.

“Impatient,” John said, breathily.

Sherlock wasn’t looking into her face any longer, but staring down at her own wrist stretching the band of John’s knickers and the cotton bulging round her knuckles. “Yes,” she said. Lust was thick in her voice. “ _Very_ impatient.”

And yet John couldn’t help but notice that she made no attempt to either rub against John’s clit or breach John’s entrance. Instead, her fingertip traced featherlight round the sensitive rim of John’s hole.

“You’re not very wet,” she said.

Oh. Was that all? John nearly giggled. “I am a bit. Just enough. It’s fine.”

“It’s _not_.”

Sherlock curled her lips in a snarl and started to bunch up John’s jumper even higher, along with the vest beneath it. To grope at John’s tits, probably, to try to get her wetter, and John appreciated the sentiment behind it, she did, but for _fuck’s_ sake, did Sherlock even listen to her own deductions?

“Stop that.” John shooed the wandering hand away. “Think about what you just said. The best part about having sex in a public toilet is that someone could walk in at any minute. You have to be quick. You can’t waste time bothering with things like foreplay, so just shut up about it, please, and _fuck_ m—”

Sherlock shoved her finger in, and John cut off with a cry that she managed at the last second to hush. Sherlock’s fingers might’ve been long, but they were slender. There was no discomfort—only a bit of a stretch (more from the awkward angle than anything) and that lovely, indescribable feeling of having something inside her.

“Apologies,” Sherlock murmured. “I only—”

She hunched over, burying her face in John’s neck, and although John waited for her to finish the thought, she only pressed a gentle kiss to John’s skin before her finger began to move.

She stuck to little prodding motions, with an occasional swirl so that her fingertip dragged over the sensitive bits along John’s inner walls. It felt even sweeter than a proper thrust would. John’s knickers kept Sherlock’s palm moulded to her skin, and every little push of Sherlock’s finger brought with it a sweep of pressure against John’s clit.

“God,” John said. Mouthed, really, as she scarcely put any voice into it. “Please.” She grabbed uselessly at the wall behind her and rocked into Sherlock’s movements, taking her finger the tiniest bit deeper.

“Shh,” Sherlock whispered back, laying another kiss on John’s neck. “Greedy thing.”

Yes. John was terribly, terribly greedy. Barely a minute of this, and already she wanted more. Wanted it thicker and deeper, wanted it to _ache_. She started to hike up one leg, hook it around Sherlock’s hip, and realised a second too late that she hadn’t really the balance for that.

But Sherlock pressed her more firmly against the wall, keeping her upright. With a breathy, grateful “yes,” John curled her arms round Sherlock’s shoulders and dropped her head back, giving Sherlock room to suck and kiss at her throat.

Still, it wasn’t all that different from before. John still needed more. More fucking her raw, less bothering with her clit. God, she wouldn’t even complain if she didn’t get off at all. If she limped out of this cubicle with her clit still swollen and throbbing, her pussy still drooling wetness and wanting more. In the lift, soaking through her knickers. In the cab back to Baker Street, Sherlock watching her squirm—maybe even Sherlock slipping a hand between her thighs and letting John squeeze it, rub against it, biting her lip to stay quiet so the cabbie wouldn’t know what they were up to.

No, Christ no, this wasn’t enough. John budged Sherlock off her, and although Sherlock gave a soft “hnng” of protest, she let herself be moved so that John could finish what she’d started before: shoving her trousers and knickers off her hips, leaving them bunched at her ankles, and turning around. She planted her hands on the wall and stuck out her bottom.

“Please,” John said, trusting that the position, along with Sherlock’s genius, would make it clear exactly what she wanted.

There was no response. Not even a whisper of movement from Sherlock. After a second or two, John’s self-consciousness (usually beaten thoroughly into submission) began to raise its awful head. Perhaps she was being _too_ greedy and pushy. Maybe she wasn’t as sexy and alluring as she thought she was. Her hips _were_ a bit wide, after all, and her arse a bit flat, and she had cellulite there and on her thighs that only got worse the older she—

Sherlock came closer, laying a hand on either side of John’s waist. John jolted in surprise at the touch, then stood still as Sherlock stepped even closer, pressing her groin against John’s bum. Curious, John glanced over her shoulder, but Sherlock’s head was bowed, her fringe blocking John’s view of her expression.

“Oh,” Sherlock said. There was a hint of wonder in her voice that made John shudder and rest her cheek against the cool wall. “Oh, John.”

Her hands slid down John’s waist, lingered at the widest part of John’s hips, then cupped John’s arse cheeks, squeezing them, lifting up and then letting go, making them jiggle. John had an urge to giggle and squirm, although she fended it off and instead pushed her bottom back even more, grinding it into Sherlock’s lap.

She expected another squeeze, or maybe another breathy noise of awe—but not for Sherlock’s whole body to give one great tremble and then go limp, for Sherlock to heave forwards and plaster herself to John’s back with a choked-off moan.

_Oh fuck, that’s hot_ , John thought, and did it again, then again, relishing how Sherlock’s limbs jerked helplessly, how she buried her face in John’s hair to muffle her cries.

And John might’ve done it again, except that Sherlock chose that moment to wind her arm around John’s hip and grope between John’s thighs, stroking John’s labia—which were slick now, she realised, slick and probably flushed with arousal—with her forefinger before nudging past and slipping into John’s cunt.

“Oh, yes,” said Sherlock. Her voice was low, thick like honey, and John swore she could feel it seeping into every crevice of her body. “Sweet girl. Wet now, aren’t you?” While John nodded, Sherlock switched out her single finger for two and answered John’s whimper with a groan. “Good. Let’s see if we can keep you that way.”

And then Sherlock fucked her.

It wasn’t the way that John had wanted—pounding her from behind, not a single brush against her clit—but that Sherlock was getting off on it, still grinding against John’s bottom and groaning into John’s hair, more than made up for it.

And it did feel good. Really, really good, actually. With her fingers crooked, Sherlock was thrusting from her shoulders, a motion that felt a bit like John’s cunt was being hooked again and again. She could feel herself stretching around Sherlock’s knuckles, could feel Sherlock’s palm dragging her labia roughly against her clit, sending a spark of pleasure through her so hot it made her toes curl and her cunt clench.

Sherlock’s coat, stuck between their bodies, fluttered suddenly free and fell on either side of her, covering both her and Sherlock like a quilt, trapping their body heat inside until it felt like John was in a bloody sauna. Sweat beaded on her forehead and dripped down her temples. Her fingers scrabbled against the wall for purchase while Sherlock fucked her hard enough that she could _hear_ how wet she was: the rhythmic _squetch, squetch, squetch_ audible even over the sounds of their panting groans.

Then the thrusts stopped, leaving John just barely impaled on Sherlock’s fingertips. With a quiet “nngh” of complaint, John tried to take over, to snap her hips up and down and fuck herself just as good as Sherlock had fucked her, but Sherlock wrapped her other arm around John’s chest, brought her mouth to John’s ear, and said, “Shh!”

It was a different _shh_ than before: sharper, more urgent. Before John could ask, though, she heard the door to the ladies’ slam open, and then she understood. They weren’t alone any longer.

The first time John had ever heard or seen another person besides her or Sherlock in the women’s toilets, and it was the one time when she really would’ve rather they just buggered off.

Frozen and trembling, Sherlock’s breath rustling her hair, John listened as whoever-it-was walked swiftly to one of the cubicles to the right of theirs, locked the door, and began to undo their zip.

Almost as soon as the stranger began to wee, Sherlock—who was just as still and alert as John—seemed to come alive and kissed John’s hair, tightened her arm around John’s chest, and began to move her fingers again. Using shallow wrist movements this time, rather than full-arm ones, so she wasn’t really thrusting any longer: just rocking in and out gently, leisurely.

_What the hell are you doing? They’ll hear us,_ John thought, and nearly reached down to stop her.

“Shh,” Sherlock said again, although John didn’t actually hear it; she only felt the rush of breath and knew that she was being shushed.

So she stayed as she was, letting Sherlock carry on fucking her slowly and tenderly. Sherlock crooked her fingers even more, making little seesaw motions right into John’s G-spot. The sweetest of John’s sweet spots—her body was bloody cliché like that, not that she was really complaining—it sent a shiver through her clit that made her thigh muscles twitch and her jaw clench, trying to hold in a cry.

_Be quiet_ , she told herself. _You have to be quiet._

As the toilet in the other cubicle flushed, Sherlock added a third finger, and the stretch, the heady feeling of fullness, was such a surprise John thought she was certainly in danger of breaking her silence, of getting them found out if they hadn’t been already. She bit her lip, tried to trap her moan in her throat.

Then Sherlock loosened the arm around her and moved it instead so that she could cover John’s mouth with her palm.

Which was hotter than it had any right to be. Being cradled against Sherlock, partly clothed and loose and soaking Sherlock’s hand, needing Sherlock to keep her quiet because she couldn’t do it herself, because she was too much of a tart to take her fucking like a good girl without making a mess of noise and getting them caught, oh fucking hell, they were so close to getting caught—

John wasn’t anywhere near orgasm, except that then suddenly she was. She squeezed her eyes shut, sank her teeth into Sherlock’s palm, and ground down on Sherlock’s hand until she came. Without the build-up she was used to, it was a bit of a pitiful little thing, just a weak throbbing sensation in her cunt and a flare of pleasure that dulled too quickly, but she savoured it all the same.

When it was over, John was out of breath, desperate for a good long gasp, but that would’ve been far too loud. So she held off, taking nothing but shallow breaths until her lungs burned and her head felt light, while the stranger finished in the cubicle, went to the sink, and turned on the taps.

Finally, _finally_ , the footsteps receded and the loo door opened. The moment it closed, John was shaking Sherlock’s hand off and sucking in one heaving breath after another, filling the silent room with the echoing sounds of her own panting.

“Oh my _god_ ,” she said, dropping her forehead to the wall. “That was ridiculous. I can’t believe—”

Sherlock swayed forwards with a quiet grunt, her clothed pelvis digging into John’s bare bum, and John realised that Sherlock was still wanting, had put aside her own satisfaction to see to John’s, and now would’ve no doubt liked the favour returned.

John glanced over her shoulder, saw that Sherlock’s face was flushed and just as sweaty as John’s, her eyelids lowered and her hair a mess. Gorgeous. John ached just looking at her.

John let go of the wall with one hand so she could reach behind and tug Sherlock even closer, until there was barely space enough for a single atom between their lower bodies.

“C’mon,” John said. “Your turn.”

She rocked back, rubbing her arse sinuously into Sherlock’s lap, which was all the encouragement Sherlock needed, apparently. Soon she was clutching John’s hips and rutting frantically against her, driving her into the wall again and pinning her there, making her take it.

It hurt a bit—Sherlock’s weight, Sherlock’s grip, even Sherlock’s thrusts put an uncomfortable pressure against her tailbone—but it was worth it. It was better than being fucked, feeling Sherlock tremble every time John pushed back against her, hearing how her breathing went harsh and quick as she moved faster. Then: the moment when Sherlock fell forwards, draping herself over John’s back and pressing her forehead to John’s shoulder, letting out a breathy sob every time she ground herself against John’s arse.

_Oh god yes_ , John thought. _Use me. Do what you want with me._

There was one last brutal thrust before Sherlock went still and her cries grew muffled. John felt something wrench at the collar of her coat. A bite, she realised. Sherlock was biting her coat as she came.

God, John wished it was her skin. Sherlock’s teeth sinking into the back of her neck, leaving a vicious red mark and an imprint of teeth. Maybe a bit of blood, and a scar.

Oh yeah, she thought, no question about it. A week and a half in, and she was already completely fucking mad over Sherlock.

Afterwards, Sherlock clung to her, listless, letting out an occasional little hitching moan that John could feel against her back. And although John’s joints were growing stiff, her shoulders beginning to ache from being held in the same tense position so long, John stayed there a while longer, wrapped up in Sherlock and her coat, and savoured it.


	4. Feet

“So,” John said, and Sherlock knew from that single word—her voice, how she dragged out the vowel a fraction of a second longer than usual, indicating nervousness and uncertainty—that she wouldn’t like wherever this conversation happened to lead. “Do you just not like being touched, or…?”

Ah. Of course. Sherlock had known this was coming. Had been actively dreading it for the last two nights, in fact: ever since the disappointment that had been their last sexual encounter, during which John had put one hand down Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms while they lay in bed and Sherlock had all but leapt across the room and then fled downstairs.

Stupid. Some days she wished she had a cock instead.

“Which is fine,” said John. “I mean, if you don’t like being touched or you don’t want to get off or—”

“Yes, thank you.” Sherlock propped her elbows on her knees with a sigh. Perched on the back of her armchair, she’d been pondering one of the cold cases Lestrade had dropped off earlier, although she suspected now that she wouldn’t have the focus for it any longer. “I know it’s fine.”

John, leaning on the back of her own chair across from Sherlock, nodded slowly, clearly waiting for Sherlock to expand on that, although Sherlock had no desire to. “Okay… so is that a yes?”

No, Sherlock certainly wouldn’t be returning to the cold case anytime soon. She heaved another, heavier sigh. “It’s neither a yes nor a no. It’s….”

She considered. Benefits and drawbacks of full disclosure, benefits and drawbacks of partial disclosure or evasion, the avenues this conversation could take, the reactions John could have to any part of it.

She remembered Victor, covered from fingertips to elbows in lubricant, both hands cramping and trembling, saying with no small amount of incredulity, _‘Really? Nothing?’_

Sherlock decided on simply: “It’s complicated.”

John inclined her head. “Okay.” She circled round her chair and sat in it. “Well. I’ve got time. So tell me about it.”

It was the last thing Sherlock wanted to do. She closed her eyes, fighting a flinch, and said nothing, although of course John wouldn’t have it. She was worse than Sherlock, sometimes, when she got a sniff of something interesting; like a bloodhound, she couldn’t be swayed, and she never forgot.

God. How Sherlock adored her.

“I mean,” John was saying, “you’ve never even undressed properly. The least I’ve seen you in has been a vest and a pair of knickers.”

_Why on earth_ , Sherlock thought, _would you want to see me in less?_ She wasn’t like John, who was soft and curvy and infinitely more attractive the less she wore. Sherlock might’ve cut an impressive figure in a full suit—and spent a great deal of time in front of the mirror every morning to ensure that she did—but unclothed she was all sharp angles and deathly white skin and wild patches of hair.

“Just—” John was leaning forwards now, hands clasped like she was begging. She licked her lips and offered Sherlock a weak, beseeching half smile. “Just talk to me?”

Sherlock couldn’t say no to her. Not like this, not to that smile. “Ugh. Fine.” Rolling her eyes to the ceiling, Sherlock hefted off the back of the armchair and plopped down into the seat. The cushion bounced and groaned. “As I said, it’s complicated. But the gist of it is that I don’t, as a general rule, ‘get off’ during sex.”

John blinked and cocked her head. Bits of her hair, shoulder-length and thin, tried to fall into her face. She shook them away. “Okay. You’ve… I mean, it’s seemed like you’ve orgasmed most times we’ve had sex, but maybe I—”

Imprecise language, Sherlock’s this time rather than someone else’s. It didn’t bode well, Sherlock losing her ability to articulate this early in the conversation. She didn’t bother to hold back her grimace.

“Yes, orgasm, yes. I did. I have. But….” How to word it? Something succinct and to the point. “I’ve been told that my body is—” An echo of Victor’s words in her mind. They had been teasing, spoken with a grin, but that hadn’t lessened the sting of them, which Sherlock had masked by indignation at the utter anatomical inaccuracy. “— _wired wrong_.”

John’s expression went stony. Dangerous. Something in Sherlock’s abdomen swooped at the sight. Apparently, no matter the situation, a dangerous John Watson would always excite her. “Who—no, maybe better I don’t know, actually. What do you mean by ‘wired wrong’?”

John wouldn’t leave off until she was satisfied, Sherlock knew, which meant that it was better to just be out with it, no matter how little Sherlock wanted to discuss her own deficiencies any further. She sighed, glancing away, and tried to sound as though it didn’t matter to her at all.

“Essentially, my genitals have two states: completely uninterested and… overly sensitive. I can, occasionally, stand to be touched directly for short periods of time if I’m very mildly aroused, but any more than that and it becomes—” ‘Excruciating’ was the first word that popped into Sherlock’s head, although it was inaccurate: far too dramatic. After a brief silence, she settled on: “—unpleasant. To orgasm, like you’ve seen, I rub against something or squeeze my thighs together. Always through clothes.”

“Okay,” said John. Her tone was thoughtful. Sherlock didn’t dare look at her. “What about your, erm… your not-genitals?”

Not-genitals. Sherlock chuckled at the wording despite her discomfort, then glanced down at her own hands, which were tapping anxiously on either arm of the chair. “My breasts might as well not exist. My neck and ears are ticklish. My wrists are—”

Incomprehensible. Victor had once licked along the most prominent vein, and Sherlock had lost her bloody mind.

“—sensitive,” Sherlock decided on. “My back is—”

Problematic. She recalled as a teenager when Mummy had tried to give her a comforting stroke, and Sherlock had nearly bit her head off and then fled, uncomfortable and confused.

“—also sensitive. My feet are—”

Ridiculous. Sherlock high on cocaine and scraping the bottoms of her feet on the rug again and again because the texture had felt so fucking _good_.

“—very sensitive. My thighs are—”

Oh, god, her thighs. How Sherlock had first learned to masturbate: rubbing firm circles up and down her inner thighs.

Then: the toilet cubicle at Scotland Yard, frotting against John’s bottom while John squirmed like a needy tart. The pressure against her thighs, so sweet, making her desperate. It had felt so good she’d wanted to scream when she came.

“—good,” said Sherlock. She was mortified to hear that she was breathless, audibly turned-on, and that she sounded more and more so as the words kept spilling from her mouth. “I… I like to be touched on my thighs—lower, near the knees, if they’re bare, higher if they’re clothed.”

“Jesus,” John said, and Sherlock knew that voice. Soft and breathy. Sherlock looked at her to verify, and yes—she was just as turned-on as Sherlock. Possibly more. Possibly getting her knickers damp at this very moment. The thought punched all the air from Sherlock’s lungs. “Sherlock, you’re not ‘wired wrong.’ You’re sensitive, and that’s… that’s _hot_.”

It wasn’t, though. It might’ve seemed that way now, in John’s hormone-flooded imagination, but the reality was that it made sex with Sherlock difficult. It made her _fussy_. It meant that manual sex was painful, oral sex was unbearable, and penetrative sex was tedious. John would grow frustrated. She would want something more.

Sherlock would lose her.

“Here,” said John, standing and scooting her armchair forwards a bit before she sat again. “Let’s try something. Can I… um. Do you mind if I…?” She gestured vaguely towards the floor, and Sherlock understood immediately.

It was an awful idea. Uncertainty, awkwardness, self-consciousness, and (worst of all) another person’s _expectation—_ all antitheses to Sherlock’s libido. She would fail to perform. John would be disappointed, then try to pretend as though she wasn’t, although of course Sherlock would see right through it. It would hurt. Excruciating. Unbearable. Awful idea.

But John wanted it. Was asking with that little half smile that was somehow just as cocky as it was supplicating. Sherlock adored her. A labyrinth of contradictions in a plain cable-knit jumper and a pair of jeans. Sherlock’s adoration was a wave swelling and crashing in her throat.

Without a word, she removed the sock on her right foot, ensured there was no lingering lint or pilling from the black cotton, then extended her leg so that John could grasp her ankle and bring Sherlock’s foot to her lap.

The sight—Sherlock’s heel propped against John’s left thigh, John cradling Sherlock’s ankle and watching Sherlock’s toes curl and wriggle in the cool air of the flat—was strangely pleasing. It seemed domestic, putting your foot in someone’s lap: domestic and intimate. It soothed something in Sherlock to be able to do this.

“Hmm,” said John, sliding her hands down so she was loosely framing the bridge of Sherlock’s foot. Her touch was warm; it made Sherlock’s breath catch. “So you’re sensitive here?”

Obviously. Wasn’t that what Sherlock had just said? But it seemed the wrong moment to berate John for stating the obvious, so she only nodded, her gaze fixed on where her own pale skin was pressed against John’s tanned skin.

“Okay,” John said. “All right if I just… explore, a bit? Not trying to, you know, lead anywhere or anything. Just see what feels good. Yeah?”

An attempt to lessen any pressure Sherlock might be feeling, obviously, although it only served to remind her that the pressure existed. She grew tense, nearly rigid, so that when John moved, curling her fingers more tightly round the middle of Sherlock’s foot, Sherlock jolted in surprise and narrowly missed kicking John in the chest.

She was mortified, and might’ve yanked her foot back, spewing apologies, had John not tightened her grip and begun to giggle, which always made Sherlock want to giggle too, and soon they were both laughing, sharing a look of delight across the space between them.

“Oh, this is going to be _fun_ ,” said John, grinning widely. “I can tell already.”

And then, when they’d both settled down, John began to explore.

She traced her thumb along the veins on the top of Sherlock’s foot (a calming sensation that made some of the tension seep from Sherlock’s body), cupped Sherlock’s heel (which made Sherlock feel inexplicably treasured), and dipped her fingertips between Sherlock’s toes (ticklish, which made Sherlock kick again and sparked another giggling fit).

John kept her touches gentle and light, so it wasn’t until she got to the ball of Sherlock’s foot, where Sherlock was the most sensitive, that anything remarkable happened. John was holding either side, her thumbs making sweeping circular motions along the sole, and when they met at the centre, where Sherlock’s skin despite her best efforts had hardened very slightly into a callus, and pressed in at the same time that John’s forefingers pressed down into Sherlock’s metatarsals, Sherlock’s breathing stuttered and her head fell back against the chair.

Oh. That was good. The pressure sparked a sort of fluttering sensation between Sherlock’s thighs that made her simultaneously want to squeeze them together at the same time that she longed to spread them as wide as they would go. So, torn, she squirmed. Her hips shimmied on the cushion, and she pushed her foot even harder into John’s touch.

“Oh,” said John, soft and whispery. Aroused by the reaction. Sherlock couldn’t stand even the thought of glancing at her now, in case something in her body language contradicted her tone. “That’s the spot, hm?”

Sherlock murmured an affirmation, and, apparently emboldened, John did it again, pressing harder this time, which drew a shuddery sigh from Sherlock’s lips.

“Can you—” John began, then went silent, although Sherlock heard the end of the question just as clearly as if she’d voiced it. And as John rubbed again, sending another fluttery feeling through Sherlock’s cunt, Sherlock saw no reason not to answer honestly.

“Yes,” she admitted. “I’ve… climaxed from massaging my own foot. Only twice, though, and there were… extenuating circumstances.”

_Drugs_ , she didn’t say, and if John understood she didn’t let on, although her touch became even more bold and firm. Confident, almost rough, she kneaded at Sherlock’s arch and her heel and her toes, finding the sensitive hollows on either side of her Achilles tendon and the dip below her big toe, before returning to the ball and digging in, massaging the sesamoid bones deep beneath the skin.

It was absurd, how good it was. How Sherlock felt it not just in her foot, but in her clit as well. Every push of John’s fingers brought a little flicker of warmth down the centre of her vulva, like what she imagined oral sex was meant to feel like. Warm, gentle licking, a sweet spark of pleasure.

But, pleasurable though it was, there was no sense of building, no feeling that she was working towards anything. She doubted she’d be able to orgasm from this. Not without some sort of additional stimulation.

And with that thought, the pleasure began to fade, overshadowed by mounting panic. John would feel that she had failed. John would be disappointed.

_You clot_ , Sherlock thought. _Do something_.

Sherlock squeezed her thighs together, which—oh, oh yes, that was it. She squeezed again and arched upwards, her knees shaking, her eyes closed, and let out a small huffing moan.

“God,” said John. Her tone was hushed, awed. “Look at you. You’re gorgeous like that.”

Sherlock wasn’t. Of course she wasn’t. Not like John.

She remembered two nights ago, before John’s aborted attempt at reciprocation: John on her hands and knees on the bed, tossing her hair to one side and looking at Sherlock over her shoulder, sticking her bottom in the air and asking for it just like that—moaning into the pillow when Sherlock gave in and fucked her roughly from behind, saying “Please, god, please” when Sherlock kissed the dip in her spine and told her what a pretty whore she was.

Then, the week before that: John on the sofa and Sherlock kneeling between her legs, a handful of her hair clasped tightly in John’s fist while John arched into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock’s tongue and scalp had ached for hours afterwards.

Now, with John kneading her foot and her clit growing so sensitive that the little flickers of pleasure were edging closer and closer to pain, Sherlock tangled her hands in her hair and tugged as she squeezed her thighs together, pushed her foot harder into John’s massaging fingers, and conjured the full, vivid memory. John’s breasts heaving beneath her jumper, her hair growing matted as she rolled her head from side to side, her hard clit against Sherlock’s tongue. How Sherlock had tried to lick it, to suckle it, then just given in and let John thrust against her tongue, hold Sherlock’s head in place and use her until Sherlock had been wet from her nose to her sternum.

_Yes,_ Sherlock thought, remembering. Her thighs were so tense they trembled, and her fingers threatened to cramp where they were still grasping her own hair. _Oh, god, yes._

Finally— _finally_ —after an indeterminate amount of time like that, Sherlock came. It was small, more muscle spasms than actual pleasure, and fast on its heels was a rush of hypersensitivity and _oh god too much stop_ that dashed any hopes she might’ve had of a pleasant afterglow.

Still, she supposed it was something.

She kicked away John’s hands—actually kicked them, and felt briefly bad about it, but John only giggled as she let go.

Sherlock wasn’t sure how long she spent recovering from her orgasm. Only that they were sitting in silence—mostly silence, anyway, aside from her own panting and her weak “uhn”s as her cunt continued to spasm occasionally—for some time before suddenly the silence was broken and John was speaking.

“So that was okay, then?”

_‘Okay.’_ The most active role anyone had ever taken helping her get off, the only time anyone had ever touched her feet sexually, the most honest she had been about her sexuality since Victor Trevor in uni. _‘Okay.’_ Sherlock let an amused snort be her answer.

“And just so you know,” John said, “I wasn’t expecting that when I asked if I could touch your foot. Not for it to be sexual, not for you to get off, not any of that. Believe it or not, I understand not wanting to be touched a particular way or not wanting to get off or not being _able_ to get off even if you want it. It’s fine, it’s _all_ fine. I just would rather you tell me instead of… well, instead of shoving me off and acting like you can’t get far enough away.”

Like Sherlock had done two nights ago when John had tried to touch her. It was a sobering thought: putting herself in John’s place, seeing her actions as John must’ve seen them.

She opened her eyes, for the first time since… whenever it was that she had closed them, which was clearly some time ago, as the light in the sitting room seemed so bright it made her eyes water and she had to squint and blink rapidly until her vision adjusted.

Then, she realised that her foot was still pillowed on John’s left thigh, that John was sitting as still as a statue to avoid jostling it, and that John’s pupils were dilated, her breathing quickened, and her hips tipped up in that way she did when she was very physically aroused and very aware of it.

It seemed unthinkable then for Sherlock to do anything but hunch lower in her armchair, so that she could stretch her leg even farther and lay her foot in the V of John’s parted thighs, press her heel into John’s zip, and relish John’s shuddery inhale and the instinctive thrust of her hips.

Beautiful girl. Sherlock pictured the growing damp patch in John’s knickers, the cotton clinging to her sex, and felt her mouth go dry. It was worth the brief discomfort, the weak flash of _too much—_ more mental than physical—that faded almost as soon as it appeared, just to see John’s eyes go half-lidded and hazy as Sherlock ground the sole of her foot into John’s lap.

“Your turn,” Sherlock said.

She ground her foot again and again into John’s zip, until John gave a tremulous moan and clasped the top of it, near the ankle, holding it in place as she rocked upwards, dragging her pubis slowly and firmly along Sherlock’s heel.

“That’s it,” said Sherlock. “Are you wet?”

John nodded, thrusting up again with a cry.

“Good. I want you soaking. I want to suck the come from your knickers when you’re done.”

John’s shoulders jerked, and her mouth opened around a long, breathy moan as her hips bucked and her back arched. She clutched Sherlock’s foot so hard, fingertips digging into the little hollows between her metatarsals, that Sherlock almost fancied she was capable of crushing it.

When John came, flushed and panting and halfway off her chair, she giggled a bit and looked at Sherlock, her eyes bright and happy. Like those first few moments after a ridiculous chase, when they were still catching their breath: John laughing and leaning into Sherlock, grinning up at her like she was the only thing in John’s world that mattered.

_Mine_ , Sherlock thought, satisfied. _Mine, mine, mine_.


	5. Bondage (Handcuffs)

“Please tell me,” said John, “that you didn’t steal those from someone at the Met.”

“I didn’t steal them,” Sherlock replied, in the overly solemn tone that meant she was being a lying little shit.

John sighed. Tried to, anyway, although the grin she couldn’t quite hold in probably ruined the effect. “You could’ve just bought a pair, you know. Even proper police handcuffs aren’t too expensive.”

As she spoke, she peeled off her jumper and began to undo her zip. That was the best response, she thought, to coming home from work and finding that the woman you’ve been having sex with had handcuffed herself to your bed.

Sherlock wasn’t nude, unfortunately, although she was wearing only a pair of white cotton knickers and a white tee that fit her so snugly it was nearly see-through. Her ribs stuck out, looking like very long, curved, water-smoothed stones, and her nipples were little dark peaks beneath the fabric, fairly begged to be toyed with, although John suspected Sherlock wouldn’t enjoy that, considering what she’d said before about her breasts. So she tried to put it out of her mind.

“Know that from personal experience, do you?” Sherlock said. She was watching John’s disrobing quite avidly. “And anyway, this is more exciting. Keys are over there, by the way.”

She jerked her chin towards the end table, where John saw two tiny silver keys near the edge. Nodding, John carried on undressing.

When John was as unclothed as Sherlock—albeit with a bra beneath her own shirt—she climbed on the bed and straddled Sherlock’s knees, staring down and admiring the long lines of Sherlock’s body. With her arms stretched above her head, her wrists cuffed to John’s old and flimsy wooden headboard, Sherlock’s shirt had ridden up, exposing her navel and her hipbones. The skin was smooth and pale, aside from a long-faded knife wound going diagonally across her right hip that she’d had as long as John had known her.

John ran her forefinger lightly across it. Sherlock’s stomach muscles jumped at the touch, though, so John left off and dragged her hand and her attention downwards. Sherlock’s knickers were puffed out slightly to accommodate her pubic hair, which was thick and poufy. Little tufts of it had escaped the fabric on either side. The dark curls contrasted gorgeously with Sherlock’s pale thighs—enough so that John was moved to skim her fingertips over the strands. Then she laid her palms on Sherlock’s inner thighs—her sensitive thighs, _‘stupid’_ Sherlock had called them, and oh god how they had haunted John’s thoughts ever since—and kept them there, even as Sherlock went positively rigid.

“All right?” John asked.

For a moment Sherlock simply stared, wide-eyed. Then she nodded once.

“This is just like the other day with your foot,” John assured her. “I’m just exploring. Not trying anything. Okay?”

Sherlock licked her lips and nodded again, so John began to explore: massaging the sculpted muscles beneath Sherlock’s soft skin, taking care to keep her touch firm and avoid tickling her. She wasn’t entirely certain she succeeded, as Sherlock gave a powerful, almost violent, full-body twitch every time John’s hands moved.

Despite that, her wide-eyed, wary expression became soft and half-lidded, and she began breathing more quickly than before.

Arousal, John thought, or at least something not unlike it. Just to be certain, she asked, “Does that feel good? Or do you want me to stop?”

Sherlock’s throat bobbed, and her tongue peeked out to wet her lips. It took her several seconds to answer. “Yes, but—” Another throat bob. As John’s fingers trailed lower, towards where John was seated on her knees, Sherlock’s head tipped back and her hands jerked feebly at the handcuffs. “Yes. Yes to both. Stop.”

John yanked her hands away, suddenly worried she’d overstepped some sort of boundary. To her surprise, Sherlock let out a little moan and tried to lift her hips as if mourning the loss.

“Sorry,” said Sherlock, squeezing her eyes shut. “Sorry, it… it feels strange, I don’t—”

“It’s fine.” John scooted forwards and bent over, so that she could kiss Sherlock’s forehead and—when Sherlock arched up in supplication—her mouth. “Remember? It’s all fine.”

Sherlock grumbled when John sat up again and tried to follow, then huffed when the cuffs prevented her, which made John chuckle. Only Sherlock would bind _herself_ down and then get exasperated about being bound.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Well. It wasn’t what I had in mind, anyway.”

Her tricep flexed, drawing John’s eye to it—to all the muscles in her arms, actually. Her arms and her shoulders and her neck…. Christ, she was gorgeous. All tied down and stretched out for John: a veritable feast. How she’d managed to do it to herself, John couldn’t even imagine, but obviously she had. Clever, gorgeous woman. John wanted to map her entire fucking body with her hands and her mouth, although Sherlock probably wouldn’t enjoy that. Not today, anyway. Maybe someday.

“Wasn’t it?” John said, still smiling. “You didn’t cuff yourself to my bed so I could do what I want with you?”

“Mm. In a manner of speaking, I suppose.” Sherlock’s gaze flickered down to where John’s legs were spread on either side of her hips, and John understood what she wanted even before she said it. “I thought you might find a use for my mouth.”

_Oh_ , John thought, _fuck._ That was an enticing idea. “I could do, yeah,” she said aloud, trying for casual but sounding breathless instead. Rather than go for her knickers, though, which Sherlock clearly expected, John took off her shirt first and then leant forwards so that her breasts hung over Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock strained upwards, and although John toyed briefly with the idea of teasing a bit, of hovering just out of reach until Sherlock gnashed her teeth and groaned and finally started to beg, she decided against it. She hunched lower, letting Sherlock nuzzle her cleavage and then take the left nipple into her mouth.

Sherlock sucked it briefly, getting the little bud warm and wet before she drew back and simply mouthed at it, let it glide back and forth over her lips until it was tight and puckered. The touch was so gentle, so sweet, it shot a bolt of arousal through John—between her toes and up her legs, settling in her groin and making her cunt clench and ache.

She cupped the back of Sherlock’s head and guided her to John’s right nipple, which Sherlock latched eagerly onto. The sound of it, a slick suckling, was as hot as the sensation. John couldn’t help but whimper. She made a fist in Sherlock’s hair and tugged, coaxing Sherlock back to the left one.

It went on like that for what seemed like ages: long enough for her thoughts to grow sluggish and her knickers to grow damp. Finally she pulled away—Sherlock moaned softly and mouthed at the air—and climbed off Sherlock’s waist so she could take off her knickers.

When they were gone, in a pile with the rest of her clothes on the floor, John straddled Sherlock’s chest, wedging her knees in Sherlock’s underarms.

“No,” Sherlock said. She sighed as though John were being spectacularly frustrating. “Higher. Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough. I want you to _sit on my face_ , not _near_ it.”

John laughed, incredulous. “And worry the whole time that I’m suffocating you? Ta, but no. Especially when you can’t move your arms to stop me if something goes wrong. Nothing quite ruins the mood like involuntary manslaughter.”

With a delighted rumbling hum, Sherlock shimmied her hips. Her lip quirked up. “Mmm. Just make sure it’s an open casket and they don’t clean my face. Mycroft will be _horrified_.”

John couldn’t help it; she laughed again, more of a giggle this time really, even as she answered, “Not funny, you berk. Jokes about dying are the definition of _not funny_.”

“Matter of opinion.” Sherlock’s pretty eyes seemed to sparkle as she gazed fondly up at John—and did so even more when she looked into the V of John’s open thighs. She plumped her bottom lip. accentuating the shine from her saliva. “Now come here. I want to eat you.”

_Eat_ was an apt word for it. Every time before when Sherlock had given her head, she’d more or less just thrown herself into the act: bypassed John’s inner and outer labia entirely, even her clit, and jammed her tongue as far as it would go into John’s cunt. (Not that John minded terribly much. If she valued patience and finesse more than enthusiasm, she should’ve been finding someone else to fuck.)

Well. That was how it _usually_ went, anyway. Today, Sherlock only sighed contentedly whilst John waddled closer on her knees, then lifted her head and buried her nose in the crease of John’s inner thigh, inhaling deeply. Taken aback, John nearly lost her balance and gripped Sherlock’s hair with both hands to steady herself, which made Sherlock moan. She nuzzled into John’s skin and the short wisps of John’s pubic hair, which needed trimmed again as it was getting longer than John liked.

Sherlock lifted her head so she could drag her nose up and down the hair. John’s left hand cupped Sherlock’s nape, supporting Sherlock’s head so she didn’t have to strain her neck trying to keep it up. As she did, she shuffled even closer so that she very nearly _was_ sitting on Sherlock’s face just like Sherlock wanted. It was only the strength of her thighs that kept her from putting all her weight on Sherlock’s chin.

“You smell good,” said Sherlock. She lifted higher, rattling the handcuffs and pressing her face into John’s vulva. John’s breathing stuttered, more from the idea than the (quite awkward, frankly) feeling of a nose nudging at her slit. “ _God_.” Sherlock’s voice pitched low. “You smell so good.”

_Oh_. The vibration from Sherlock’s voice felt good. A nice little tease. John’s hips thrust forwards instinctively, chasing the sensation, and at the movement Sherlock’s arms jerked, fighting briefly against the cuffs.

“All right?” John asked, just to be sure. “Do you need me to let—”

Sherlock cocked her head and took one of John’s inner labia into her mouth, suckling gently, and the concern died in John’s throat. Again, like the nuzzling, the appeal came more from the idea than how it felt. (Cunnilingus had always appealed more to her mentally than physically.) God, she wanted to make a fucking mess of Sherlock. Pull her hair and ride her tongue and get her entire face sopping wet—which obviously went against her intentions to be gentle while Sherlock was tied down.

She reined in the desire and did her best to stay still while Sherlock tongued and suckled gently, occasionally switching sides or pausing to nuzzle some more. It was so… indulgent, so tender, so terribly unSherlock. John wondered if something about wearing handcuffs was addling her brain, making her want to take things slowly, making her less bossy and less handsy: more cooperative.

She raked her fingers through Sherlock’s curls, which were always so soft and springy, and decided to try being a little more commanding. “All right,” she murmured. “Enough of that. My clit’s feeling a little left out.”

“Ohh.” It was a breathy noise, more a burst of air against John’s bits than an actual word, and Sherlock obeyed immediately, bringing her tongue to John’s clit and flicking very, very gently.

It tickled slightly, made John squeeze Sherlock’s cheeks a bit tighter between her thighs. “A little suction first,” she said. “Get it nice and swollen.”

Another “Ohh,” this time with more voice behind it until it was nearly a moan, and then Sherlock got right to it, closing her lips around John’s clit and giving it a tentative suck.

It was nice. Not really enough to satisfy; John’s clit needed something strong, even _rough,_ before it felt properly good. Still, she stroked Sherlock’s hair again and said, “Yeah. That’s good,” with affection thick in her tone. Sherlock shuddered beneath her; the handcuffs clacked against the headboard.. “So good, Sherlock. Little harder?”

And, oh god, _there_ , that was it. A nice solid suck: almost too much—John thought fleetingly of a clit pump—but that was all right. And if John was honest, that was how she liked it. In sex, cases, fights—John bloody _lived_ for being thrown in the thick of it, overwhelmed, struggling to keep her head above water.

Perfect, that Sherlock was the same.

John’s hips twitched forwards of their own volition, wanting to mash Sherlock’s face to her vulva— _No smothering_ , John reminded herself, _breathing is important_ —and the suction broke briefly while Sherlock moaned, licking her lips (savouring John’s wetness, _oh god_ ) and tipping her head back. Looking up at John through her long, lovely lashes.

“If you don’t grab my hair and ride me,” she said thickly, “I’ll be very disappointed. I’ve been thinking of it all day.”

John giggled, dragging her fingers through Sherlock’s curls. “Have you? I thought you wanted me to sit on your face.”

“For starters.” Sherlock kissed the crease of John’s inner thigh and then went in for another suckle, twisting her head and bobbing a bit: a gentle tugging that made John’s hips stutter again. She could _feel_ the blood pooling in her clit; it felt hot and swollen, a pleasant sort of achey. When Sherlock pulled off, John bit down on a whine. “But that’s too passive for you. You’ll get bored of it. Impatient.”

Bored and impatient. Words John would’ve used to describe Sherlock, not herself, but John didn’t argue. Hadn’t she just been thinking how similar they were?

Instead, she grabbed two handfuls of Sherlock’s hair and twisted until the roots were taut, just shy of tugging on Sherlock’s scalp. Sherlock’s lashes fluttered, and she tipped her head even farther back, baring her throat in a way that seemed distinctly submissive.

John’s mouth went dry; she had to swallow a few times before she could speak. “We’ll see. For now, I think I want your tongue.”

She’d barely said it before Sherlock was obliging, bathing John’s clit with the flat of her tongue and then giving it a little flick with the tip. It was good, not ticklish at all this time; it brought a throb of heat to her groin, as gorgeous but lingering as the light of a sunrise.

“Harder,” she said. “And quicker.”

Sherlock obeyed, and it was more like a blast of sparks, a good strong burst of sensation that faded only to be immediately lit again. She licked, then licked again and again, swift and firm—it was good at the same time that it was _off_. The pointed tip of her tongue slipped just to the side of where John wanted it.

It was on the tip of her own tongue to tell Sherlock to move, but… well. It was simpler for John to do it herself, wasn’t it? And if Sherlock really wanted to be held still and ridden….

John twisted her hands once more, gripping Sherlock’s hair even tighter—to the point of pain pricks, possibly, although Sherlock’s moan was all pleasure, even _gratitude_ —and nudged her face to the right, then a little down and left, until she had it: Sherlock lapping quick and rough at John’s clit just where she needed it, sending one sharp flash of pleasure after another through her. She felt her cunt clenching, her thighs beginning to tremble with the effort of not rocking into the sensation like she wanted to. Like she was _used to_ —because Sherlock was right, as usual, wasn’t she? John couldn’t just stay still and take it, although the idea (Sherlock holding her down, biting the back of her neck, telling her to “Take it, take it, _take it_ ”) sounded brilliant. John had to move; John had to take over.

And Sherlock wanted to be ridden, didn’t she? As long as John was careful, as long as she didn’t slip up and start treating Sherlock’s face like a pillow that could be moulded and humped until she was raw—

John did her best to keep her knees where they were, not wanting to trap Sherlock’s head between them like a nut in a vise. She simply bent forwards, removing one hand from Sherlock’s hair so she could grip the headboard instead and keep herself upright. It brought her cunt a bit lower, and Sherlock’s mouth was easy enough to guide in place, so that her tongue was right against John’s clit.

An experimental thrust of John’s hips—it tested her balance, and god she couldn’t bear to imagine what she looked like—and Sherlock’s whole body surged upwards with a cry that John could _feel_ in her cunt: a sweet shockwave that ended too soon as Sherlock mashed her face into John’s vulva and pressed her tongue against John’s clit so hard it nearly hurt.

But it made a nice firm, warm and slick surface for John to rub against—which was precisely what she did. In seconds, Sherlock wasn’t pressing at all any longer; she was just lying with her head lifted, her mouth slack, and her tongue still: perfectly happy to be used.

So John used her. Swiveled her hips and shifted her position until she’d found the right angle and motion (a slick glide up the middle of Sherlock’s tongue, then closer to the edge on the slide back down, Sherlock’s teeth beneath the tip of it providing a hint of pressure that John lingered on before she started again), and then she shucked her inhibitions and rutted until she was slack-jawed and panting, gripping the headboard like a lifeline. Sherlock’s entire frame quivered slightly, and with every snap of John’s hips, she let out a little “unh, unh” (too soft for John to feel the vibrations of her voice, unfortunately).

Entirely too soon, John’s legs began to tire, shake, and threaten to give under her weight. With her orgasm still a long ways off, and John still loath to risk smothering Sherlock, she said a silent goodbye to Sherlock’s gorgeous mouth and climbed off. Her thighs burning, she groaned as she fell on her arse on the bed just beside Sherlock, who echoed the sound with a great deal more frustration and strained against the handcuffs.

“Sorry,” John said. “My legs were starting to hurt. Do you—”

“Hurry up,” Sherlock snapped. Her mouth was glistening with saliva and wetness, and there was a whitish smear on her chin. “Get yourself off and then _get back here_. I want to feel your cunt clutching at my tongue after you’ve come.”

_Fuck_ , John thought, shuddering. Sometimes she thought she was starting to get used to Sherlock’s dirty talk, and then Sherlock would say something that affected her anew.

She wasted no time following Sherlock’s orders. With one hand she parted her labia and with the other she flicked at her clit, testing the sides of it and then—oh, that was it—the top, pushing down on the hood until it nearly covered the little nub before drawing it back again.

Sherlock had practically contorted herself, twisting as much onto her side as she could so that she could watch. The handcuffs clacked and rattled, Sherlock tugging on them incessantly almost as if she couldn’t help it. She licked her lips again and again as she watched John touch herself, looking increasingly lost and desperate as John’s “uhn”s pitched higher and her fingers flicked harder and faster.

When John began to come, she gave herself no time to appreciate it. At the first heady throb, she was rising to her knees, despite her still-weak and aching thighs, and straddling Sherlock’s face, letting her arch up and feel the muscles of John’s cunt contracting around her tongue.

Sherlock moaned, deep and long—John definitely felt the vibrations that time, and had to grip the headboard to keep from falling—and buried herself as deep as possible in John’s pussy. It felt… not as strange as she’d have thought, actually, and she was half-tempted to try to hump Sherlock’s tongue until she brought herself to a second, feeble orgasm, but she didn’t. She stayed as still as possible until the aftershocks had passed. Then she climbed off and flopped onto the bed, while Sherlock stared dazedly at the ceiling with her whole body tense. Her thighs were clenched tightly together.

“Do you want me to uncuff you,” John asked, “so you can—”

Sherlock shook her head hard enough that her curls flew. “Lie on me.”

Through a series of trials and errors (Sherlock grunting when John got it right and huffing impatiently when John got it wrong), John discovered that what she really meant was _Let me rub off on your leg_. So John put all her weight on Sherlock, slotting a thigh between each of Sherlock’s and giving her as much of a solid surface to rut against as she could.

Sherlock hitched one ankle around the back of John’s calf, kept the other where it was, and _squeezed_ with her thighs, holding John in place while she rocked her hips up and down at a frantic pace. Her groin never actually made contact with John; each thrust stopped just short of a proper rub, but her lower back arched and she let out a sharp cry as though it was perfect.

John wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and mouthed at her collarbone, then trailed her lips upwards near Sherlock’s throat, feeling as Sherlock—already gasping and sweating—grew even more short of breath and sweaty; her arms jerked, and the handcuffs rattled even harder.

Eventually, Sherlock froze, poised with her hips thrust forwards, not quite grinding herself against John’s thigh. She let out a wavery “Oh John, oh f—” and then she went limp, collapsing flat on the mattress with a gasp.

John held her even more tightly, nuzzling her jaw and stroking the hair at her nape.

“You,” she murmured, “are so fucking gorgeous, you have no idea.”

She wondered who else had seen Sherlock like this. There’d been at least one other person, someone who had told her that she was _wired wrong_ —and if John ever met that person, she wouldn’t be held responsible for her actions—but had there been more?

The idea was odd. Not offensive, exactly—because John had never seen the point of getting jealous of previous lovers, and anyway it would’ve been absurdly hypocritical of her, considering her own sexual history—but just… _odd_. She couldn’t wrap her mind around it.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was panting beneath her, her shoulders heaving and her arms trembling ceaselessly. Her muscles must’ve been stiff and tired, stuck in that position for so long. John lifted her head, staring into Sherlock’s flushed sweaty face.

Sherlock stared back, blinking rapidly as though she was trying to mentally process something.

_That brain_ , John thought fondly. _Never shuts off, does it?_

“Give me a bit,” said Sherlock. “Before you undo the cuffs. I want to, uhm. I want to stay here just a bit longer.”

God, she was probably going to be in agony when she was finally freed. Still, John didn’t argue; she only nodded and lowered herself back down, settling in on Sherlock’s warm body for just a bit longer.


	6. Biting

“I didn’t mean to,” Sherlock insisted, for once entirely truthful, because it was important that John understand this. Crucial, in fact, that John understand Sherlock’s first reaction—to the smear of blood on John’s sheets, to the very faint metallic taste in her own mouth—had been alarm, followed swiftly by horror.

“Sherlock. It’s _fine_ ,” John said, in the half-sighing tone that meant she was getting very tired of saying this. (Fortunate, as Sherlock was getting very tired of hearing it.) She peered into the mirror over her shoulder, rubbing the back of her neck, where the skin was flushed an angry pink and marked with the blood-red outline of human teeth.

_Sherlock’s_ teeth.

Sherlock’s mind spun. John would need antibiotics. With the human mouth teeming with bacteria, the threat of infection—even greater than a dog bite, according to some studies, even more potentially life-threatening than—

“It won’t happen again,” Sherlock blurted, then flinched because of course she couldn’t guarantee that. She didn’t even remember _doing it_ in the first place.

It was just that something _happened_ to her when she had John’s bare bottom pressed against her. Her mind palace went dark, coherent thought abandoned her, and her body—treacherous, stupid thing that it was—did whatever it wanted.

And today, it evidently wanted to bite John hard enough to draw blood.

“ _Sherlock_.” John was looking at her now, catching Sherlock’s eye in the mirror. Her expression was open and sincere. “It’s fine. And it can happen again. Just… maybe not so hard next time, yeah?”

_Next time_.

A blow to the clavicle would have affected Sherlock less. She was struck dumb, gripping the door frame and gaping stupidly while John fetched the antiseptic from the cupboard.

“You know,” she said while she tended her wound, “tea would be nice.”

She’d barely finished the sentence before Sherlock was dashing off to make it.

*

The promise of _next time_ haunted her.

Sherlock would have to wait until John’s current bite healed, of course. Obviously. Otherwise, she risked interfering with the healing process, causing complications, leading to more damage. So: no additional bites for the foreseeable future.

Which was fine. Obviously. Sherlock had managed nearly two months of having sex with John _without_ gnawing on her skin. It was fine. It should have been simple, even.

Then John began wearing her hair in a high ponytail (even though it was scarcely long enough for it, and thick chunks of hair continually slipped from her hairband and fell in her face, which made her scowl and huff).

“It keeps getting stuck in the plaster when I leave it down,” John groused when Sherlock asked. “It’s driving me mad.”

It should have been fine, but now Sherlock had to _see it_. The large flesh-coloured fabric strip peeking from the top of John’s jumpers every time she faced away from Sherlock. Which was far more often than Sherlock had ever realised—when John made tea, when she made a show of binning Sherlock’s experiments, when she fetched the phone from Sherlock’s coat pocket.

With every glimpse, Sherlock was confronted with the knowledge that she had _marked_ John. That John now wore (albeit only temporarily) an imprint of Sherlock’s teeth in her skin, that it might scar (however faintly), that John might carry a remnant of Sherlock on her body for the rest of her life.

It was a stupid, cliché sentiment, but she was helpless in the face of it.

She pushed John face-first into walls and doors and bent her over every piece of furniture in the flat that could carry their combined weight, all to put her closer to that little fabric strip and the healing bite mark it covered.

“We have beds, you know,” said John, panting. Her fingers scrambled for purchase on the wall that Sherlock had shoved her up against. “We could, uhn fuck—we could give one of those a try sometime.”

Sherlock was only half listening: too distracted by the plaster mashed against her cheek. She had one arm wrapped around John’s left hip and the other lined up with the cleft of John’s bottom, a finger from each hand stuffed in John’s cunt from both sides.

It wasn’t comfortable. John’s height meant that Sherlock had to simultaneously hunch and stretch, and any thrusting motions she attempted were ruined by John’s incessant _squirming_ —her hips rocking ceaselessly, trying to shove herself back and forth on Sherlock’s fingers with a rhythm so frantic and erratic that Sherlock couldn’t keep up.

She concentrated on the protected bite mark instead. Scraped her cheek across the plaster again and again and then turned her nose into it, inhaling the very faint (possibly imagined) scent of antiseptic and antibiotic cream. She even gave in to the urge to lick it gently, barely brushing the tip of her tongue across its surface. It tasted of nothing but the woven fabric it was made of, no soaked-up sweat or lingering blood, not even a hint of the plaster’s adhesive, but the thought of the wound beneath it—maybe still swollen and red, throbbing with John’s pulse—made her feel like she could purr with satisfaction and contentedness.

John’s rhythm, such that it was, faltered and slowed, and she twisted her head, squinting over her shoulder at Sherlock. Waiting for Sherlock to respond to her earlier comment, wondering why she hadn’t yet.

Although it made Sherlock’s back groan and her forearms scream, she hunched further and stretched her arms longer, so that she could drive her fingers deeper and stroke John’s G-spot.

“Uh!” John cried. Her head fell forwards, hitting the wall. “Fuck!”

“I’ll keep the beds in mind,” Sherlock said, and stroked again.

*

It was worse when the plaster came off, when John took to wearing low-backed vests with her hair still up to avoid irritating the abused skin. Drawing Sherlock’s attention to it, giving her no choice but to look at the healing wound daily, watch as the swelling went down and the bruised skin darkened even further to a purplish-blue.

And then—oh god, worst of all—came the rubbing. John, stubborn and incapable of leaving any injury alone to heal, reaching hourly to poke and prod at it, grimacing at the ache and occasionally letting out a quiet moan of pain that was not terribly different from her moans of pleasure.

It made Sherlock’s stomach clench and her knees go wobbly. With every poke and prod, she saw a newlywed unconsciously twirling their wedding ring round and round their finger.

It made Sherlock burn. It made her _crave_.

They fucked daily: Sherlock always plastered to John’s back so that she could nuzzle the wound, kiss it, smell it, commit every dint in skin and blot of colour to memory.

And also so that she could monitor its healing. Late one afternoon—in her bed, undressed but for her knickers and a vest, and curled around John while John was still nude and trembling, letting out soft gasping cries while her bullet vibrator still buzzed against her clit—Sherlock scrutinised the bite mark, noting that the texture was smoother, the redness gone, the purplish-blue faded to tan.

“Ugh,” said John. The buzzing stopped, and she rolled away from Sherlock, stretching out on her stomach with her head pillowed on her forearms. She had more hair out of her ponytail now than in, and there were beads of sweat on her temples. “C’mon. Just do it already.”

Sherlock propped herself up on one elbow, frowning. “What?”

“You’re not subtle, you know. You’re anything but subtle.” John lifted her head long enough to sweep the dishevelled hair from her nape, baring the bruised skin, and Sherlock found herself staring, licking her lips. “See. Look at you. You want to bite me so badly you can taste it, can’t you?”

Sherlock’s throat clicked as she swallowed. Yes, she could taste it (the salt of sweat, the slightest imagined tang of blood) and also see it (swollen reddened imprint) and feel it (her jaw clenched, a tight aching sensation deep in her gums)—oh, yes. “It—I’ll interfere with the healing process, I’ll—”

“There’s the whole rest of my neck to bite too. And my shoulders, my back… might have to experiment a bit to see what I like, but my whole body is more or less yours.”

_Mine_.

Sherlock felt lightheaded. Her mouth flooded with saliva.

“So,” said John, with a teasing uptick of her lips, “climb on. You can rub off on me if you want. Just like last time.”

Sherlock was moving before she realised it, crawling closer and then lying atop John’s prone body. There was a minute of awkward rearranging, elbowing, and giggling before they found an acceptable position: John’s legs spread and Sherlock between them, pressing the front of her knickers against John’s bare bottom.

John lifted her hips, pushing back into Sherlock’s groin—and oh god, it was good. John’s arse cheeks parted slightly, Sherlock’s vulva cradled between them and squeezed gently. There was a hint of sweet pressure that receded just before it turned to pain.

Sherlock planted her palms on the bed and raised herself so that she could look between their bodies, watching as John’s bottom dimpled and quivered when Sherlock thrust against it. The sight—what was it about this sight? It scrambled her brain, caused her chest and groin to feel tight, made her gnaw her bottom lip to keep from crying at how she never wanted it to stop.

“Fuck,” she said, giving another harsher thrust. “Fuck.”

She wanted to fuck John, to make her sob and squirm and cling to the sheets to keep herself in place. She wanted to fill John’s wet cunt and pound into her so hard that John would be sore and limping for days.

“C’mon,” said John. “Give us a bite.”

She shimmied her shoulders playfully, making the muscles in her back flex and shift and drawing Sherlock’s attention not just to the faded bite mark on her nape but the scar on her left shoulder as well. Sherlock longed to examine it, prod at it and kiss it and even bite it, just a bit.

But John’s head was turned to one side, one eye watching Sherlock. She was no doubt sensitive about her war injury, about the beautifully gnarled skin, just as she had been about her psychosomatic limp, her therapy appointments, anything she deemed a possible weakness (no matter whether it truly was or wasn’t).

Sherlock satisfied herself with a mental snapshot of it—to be scrutinised at length later in the confines of her mind palace—and moved on. She focused on the small burst of freckles to the left of John’s existing bite mark, about an inch below the join of her neck and left shoulder. A good spot, Sherlock thought, for a bite.

She lowered herself slowly, giving John plenty of time to change her mind and shove her off, but John only closed her eyes and lay still, letting Sherlock do as she wanted.

Sherlock took a thin sliver of skin at the centre of the burst between her teeth and bit down. She kept the pressure light, more of a nip than a proper bite. When she let go and drew back, there was a white oval-shaped outline in John’s tanned skin that faded in seconds.

“That’s it?” John giggled and opened her eyes again, arching a brow at Sherlock. “That’s the best you can do?”

“Shut up.” Sherlock aimed a swift but gentle poke at John’s side, just below her underarm where she was most ticklish, and John squealed and jumped, inadvertently pushing her bottom into Sherlock’s groin. Sherlock couldn’t help but moan softly, although she stopped herself from rocking down when John settled again. “Mm. I’m experimenting. Stay still.”

With John still giggling, Sherlock bent her head, positioned her teeth over the same location—although she opened her jaw wider, shaping her mouth into more of a circle than an oval—and bit. Harder this time, and she lingered there with her teeth digging into John’s skin for several seconds before releasing.

This time, the skin wasn’t just white, it also bore the clear impression of Sherlock’s front teeth: both incisors and cuspids on the top row, and all the way to her premolars on the bottom. The top row faded in seconds, although the bottom one remained.

With a stuttering sigh, Sherlock pressed her lips to the lingering imprint and then drew her tongue along it, tasting sweat and feeling the indentations. She bit again, even harder, although she broke away quickly when John’s shoulders jerked and she inhaled sharply in pain.

“Ugh,” John said. “You’re thinking too much. Stop it.” She reached behind with one hand and groped at Sherlock’s hip, driving it forward and encouraging Sherlock to grind against her arse. Sherlock’s arms went weak, and she fell flat onto John with a cry. “That’s it. Bite me while you fuck me.”

_‘Fuck me.’_

It hurt, the pulse of sensation that went through Sherlock’s genitals then. She considered doing nothing, just lying still and letting it smoulder. But not now, not when John was asking for it.

She chose a piece of skin at random—above John’s right shoulder blade, which was smooth and unmarked—and kissed it, sucked it, warmed it up slightly before she opened her mouth wide and sank her teeth into it.

John neither jerked nor made a sound. With a moan, breathy and quiet, Sherlock granted herself permission to carry on.

Her hips hitched minutely forwards, pushing her vulva into the crevice between John’s arse cheeks, feeling them cup her and exert just enough pressure to tease. She ground harder and knew that John’s bottom was dimpling, the fleshiest bits bouncing, and just the thought, oh god the image, had her grinding faster, biting deeper to muffle her cries.

Soon, Sherlock had shoved at John so much that John was skidding forwards on the sheets, and Sherlock had to haul herself higher to follow, to keep John’s bum nestled so perfectly against her. As she did, she unclenched her jaw—and was vaguely aware of John exhaling shakily when her shoulder was free—and mouthed blindly at the surrounding skin, finding another dry smooth patch to circle with her teeth and bite.

John jolted, whimpering. “That’s it.” She gripped Sherlock’s hip loosely as though trying to ground herself. Her voice was high and tight. “Bite me. Feels good.”

It didn’t, obviously. The pain rang in her voice as clearly as a scream, and oh god. That John wanted it despite the pain, that John was willing to withstand the pain to be marked by Sherlock—that John would hurt and bruise and bleed for Sherlock, would _demand_ it.

_Oh_ , Sherlock thought, nearly overcome. _John._

She unclamped her teeth from John’s skin and clambered onto her hands and knees, ignoring John’s confused “Sherlock?” and protesting tugs on Sherlock’s hip, so that she could change positions. This time she straddled John’s right leg, hooked her chin over John’s right shoulder, and wound an arm around until she could press her palm to John’s sternum. Her fingers splayed over John’s suprasternal notch, which she pressed up on until John got the hint and lifted her head.

The motion bared John’s full, unblemished throat. Sherlock panted into the side of it as she gripped John’s leg tightly between her thighs, holding it in place while she humped awkwardly at John’s arse cheek and hip. She opened her mouth and laid her tongue flat on John’s skin, tasting the pulse pounding beneath.

“I,” she said, muffled and garbled, “am going to ruin you.”

She bit and relished John’s injured moan, how her whole body seized like she meant to fight before going slowly limp: not only giving herself over to Sherlock, but overcoming her own nature to do it.

With a whine, rapturous and lost, Sherlock rutted against John until her eyes stung with sweat and she was breathing frenziedly through her nose and snorting slightly, bull-like and stupid but impossible to stop. Pleasure was a knife slicing through her, cutting away her inhibitions. She even felt a bit like she was bleeding: a sort of slippery feeling in her cunt that had only ever accompanied menstruation.

When John’s head and shoulders began to sag forwards again, Sherlock let her go and attached her teeth instead to John’s nape, near but not overlapping the older faded bite mark. John cried out, sounding both pained and triumphant, and shoved her arse back against Sherlock again and again until Sherlock was trembling and coming, imagining being able to hold John’s hips down and fuck her and fuck her and _fuck her_ —

And suddenly the sensation was too much. The pleasure, the sweet dull throb in her cunt, began to sting like a burn. She let go of John’s nape, vaguely aware that her face was soaked with her own saliva, and flopped onto her side, reaching for John, feeling John reach back and envelop her in a firm but affectionate embrace.

“Hey,” John said. “That’s it. I’ve got you. You can bite some more if you want.”

Sherlock didn’t, actually, as that sounded more physically taxing than she felt capable of at the moment. But it did give her an idea.

“Turn over,” she said. When John didn’t react, Sherlock huffed and pawed feebly at John’s forearms. “ _Over,_ John. Turn.”

John turned, giggling. “Did you know you’re slurring a bit?”

“No I’m not.” Sherlock would’ve known if she was, obviously.

“You are a bit. You’re talking differently anyway. More slowly.”

Ridiculous. John hadn’t addled her _that_ badly. Sherlock rolled her eyes. “I’m not.”

John said nothing as she settled on her side, facing away from Sherlock. Her back was an assemblage of miscoloured blotches, including not just her scar and Sherlock’s teeth marks but a strip of bright red on her arse cheek. Friction burn from Sherlock’s knickers, Sherlock realised with a tinge of guilt.

The most brutal of the bite marks—most of which were flushed a dusky pink—was the one on John’s nape. Which, Sherlock saw now, actually did partly overlap the faded one, albeit only slightly, like a pair of joined rings. The entire area was swollen and bluish, although the outline of Sherlock’s teeth was darker, almost burgundy, and startlingly clear.

Something in Sherlock’s chest seemed to prickle and twist. She draped herself around John, nosing at her nape and kissing the bitten and bruising skin. It was warm to the touch, and Sherlock fancied she could taste the hurt: the throbbing ache that John must’ve been feeling.

“There’s no blood, right?”

It took Sherlock a moment to realise that John expected a response, then another moment to process the question.

“No,” said Sherlock. There was neither visible blood on John’s skin nor the tell-tale metallic taste in her own mouth. Still, she swiped her tongue across the bite just to be sure. “No blood.”

“Mm. Pity.”

Sherlock froze, certain that she’d misheard. Wishful thinking, perhaps. As John liked to point out on occasion, Sherlock was often prone to hearing only what she wanted to hear.

Then John rolled her shoulders and shook her head. Strands of her hair whipped Sherlock lightly in the face and clung to her still-wet lips and chin. “No, sorry. Didn’t really mean that. It just sort of, erm, popped out.”

_Because that’s what you were thinking_ , Sherlock thought. John was doing her own wishful thinking, which apparently aligned quite well with Sherlock’s.

Lovely, luminous John. Every time that Sherlock thought they couldn’t fit together any more perfectly, she was proven wrong.

She blew John’s hair away from her mouth and said, “Out of curiosity, what are your thoughts on a harness?”


	7. Dirty Talk (Part Two)

“You know,” John said, trying and failing to sound appropriately cross, “when you said ‘Put your coat on, we’re going to a sex shop,’ somehow I didn’t picture the night ending with us being shot at.”

It was hard to be angry, though, with Sherlock looking as she did. Still flushed and glowing from exertion, her lips turned up in a satisfied smirk, shrugging off her coat like a queen might remove her cloak while waiting for her devoted servants to bend and kiss her feet. (And didn’t that thought tempt John’s mind down a million filthy avenues.)

Worse was that even before the shootout and ensuing chase, Sherlock’s hair had been in a state of post-haircut floof. Now it was windblown and wild, matted in some places and sticking up in others. She looked childish and ridiculous. She looked stupidly attractive.

As though aware of John’s thoughts, Sherlock spun around, peered into the mirror above the mantel, and began to finger-comb and ruffle her curls back into place.

A quick glance of her own told John that she looked similarly dishevelled and giddy, although not nearly as attractive.

“To be fair,” said Sherlock, “I didn’t either. When a customer in your shop asks about a highly publicised murder that occurred nearby, most people’s reaction wouldn’t be to immediately pull out a pistol and start shooting.”

“I suppose not.”

“Ugh, the histrionics of men.” Sherlock rolled her eyes. “And his aim was awful.”

“Fortunately for us.”

Sherlock hummed to concede the point. Her hair arranged perfectly again, her fringe swept artfully across her forehead and curls brushing the tops of her ears, she spun back around with a grin.

“Tea?”

She didn’t wait for a response before she traipsed into the kitchen. John trailed after and paused in the entrance to admire the long, straight length of Sherlock’s back and the confident set of her shoulders. There must’ve been some element of guesswork involved tonight; she wouldn’t have been preening like this otherwise.

“Next time,” John said lightly, “maybe let me know when we’re visiting a shop to investigate instead of, you know. To shop.”

_So I don’t get my hopes up about coming home with a strap-on_ , she didn’t say. Although to be honest, she wasn’t as disappointed as she probably should have been. What did it say about her, she wondered, that she was just as happy to be shot at as she was to get a leg over?

Sherlock said nothing as she filled the kettle, but as it heated, she cocked her head, glancing at John from the corner of one eye.

“Would you mind checking my computer? It’s on the chair.”

John looked. ‘The chair’ evidently meant Sherlock’s chair and ‘my computer’ evidently meant John’s computer, as that was the only one in sight. At least it was a request rather than a command—that was some progress.

Still, she sighed. “Boundaries, Sherlock. We’ve talked about this.”

Again, Sherlock ignored her, too busy retrieving two mugs from the cupboard, so with a roll of her eyes, John returned to the sitting room. She’d intended to scoop up her computer and carry it to her own chair, but at the last moment changed her mind and simply plopped into Sherlock’s. The well-worn leather creaked only slightly under her weight and seemed to cradle her as she sank into it. Not as good as her own chair—John preferred something more firm—but it would do.

John set the laptop on her knees and opened it.

“What am I checking the computer for?”

The screen flickered to life and, well, that answered her question well enough.

“There was a possibility—remote, obviously—that I was wrong about the shopkeeper,” came Sherlock’s voice from the kitchen, accompanied by the clang of cutlery. “In which case I thought we could browse the inventory, see if anything caught our fancy. And if I was right—”

“You thought we’d come home and shop online,” John finished, staring wide-eyed at the screen. When she’d agreed last week to Sherlock’s suggestion of a strap-on, she hadn’t envisioned a harness costing £100, but that was precisely the cost of the one that Sherlock had pulled up on screen. Surely there was a less expensive option, something that John could actually afford?

Sherlock appeared in the entrance, a steaming mug in each hand. She looked less confident than she had only minutes before; her shoulders and back were slightly slumped, and there wasn’t an air of self-satisfaction about her any longer.

John reached for her tea, but Sherlock bypassed her entirely and deposited both mugs on the desk, where neither of them would be able to reach. Then before John could question it, Sherlock was climbing into the chair with John, throwing one leg over John’s knee and another over the chair arm. Her thigh knocked the computer, sending it dangerously close to toppling onto the floor.

John moved it hastily away, hissing, “Jesus, Sherlock! We can’t both sit here; it’s not big enough.”

“Oh it’s fine.” Sherlock’s tone was blithe, almost exaggeratedly so, which made John suspect she was being silently giggled at. “And anyway, how else are we meant to shop together?”

“There’s the sofa? Or the table? And how many times have you stood behind me and looked over my shou—”

“Ugh, dull.”

Sherlock leaned in, the back of her shoulder brushing John’s cheekbone. It had to be uncomfortable, sitting like that with her legs spread and her arse half-wedged between the chair arm and John, and if it wasn’t already then it would be soon enough.

John scooted over, making herself as small as possible so that Sherlock could sink down a bit. She still wasn’t quite sitting properly and now John was squashed, but it would do for at least a few minutes. If Sherlock weren’t so absurdly tall, John thought (perhaps a touch bitterly), she might’ve been able to sit in John’s lap.

“Here, give it to me.” Sherlock grabbed the laptop with one hand and jerked it towards her so she could see the screen.

 “Oi, careful! That’s mine, you know,” John said peevishly, but of course Sherlock ignored her.

“Ah, that’s the harness I’d settled on. What do you think?”

“What do I think?” John shooed Sherlock’s hand away and arranged the computer herself, angling it towards Sherlock but setting it down on her own thighs. “It’s bloody expensive, that’s what I think.”

Sherlock blinked twice, quickly. “What does that matter?”

“I’m not,” John said, clinging to her patience, “paying £100 for one harness.”

“Obviously not.” Sherlock blinked again. “I am. I’ll be the one wearing it, after all.”

All thoughts about cost fled John’s mind like frightened birds.

“Will you? I mean—” She licked her lips, feeling suddenly flustered. “I wasn’t—I didn’t want to assume, but… no interest at all in trying it out the other way?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and her lips turned down. “No, not my area. Penetration has only ever bored me.”

_Maybe you just need someone who knows what they’re doing_. John nearly said it; it was on the tip of her tongue before she reconsidered. A bit arrogant, wasn’t it, to behave like John had more authority on what Sherlock did and didn’t like than Sherlock herself. Arrogant and ignorant. If a man had done the same to John, she’d have thought about chinning him.

“Okay,” she said instead. “You’ll only ever be wearing it, so… you’re buying it.”

“I was going to buy the toy as well,” said Sherlock. “But you’ll insist otherwise, yes?”

“Yes.”

John said it firmly, no-nonsense. There was the matter of fairness, for one, and for another…. Well. It was less couple-y, wasn’t it? It would seem less like _their strap-on_ if it was Sherlock’s harness and John’s toy: two separate items they just happened to be using in conjunction. That made more sense, didn’t it?

“I found a few dildos I thought were strong possibilities,” said Sherlock. She reached past John to tap the mouse, closing one tab and opening another. In the new tab was a product page for a dildo: greyish-blue, silicone, with a wide flat base at one end and a sharp, almost 90-degree curve at the other. “I narrowed down the shop’s selection of harness-compatible dildos based on your preferences.”

“Not that one,” John told her, apparently surprising Sherlock so much that she jerked backwards.

“Why not? It’s designed for G-spot stimulation. You _like_ G-spot stimulation.”

As though John needed reminded of her own preferences. She fought the urge to laugh. “I do. When there’s a hand doing all the work. You think I want a toy with that much curve in my twat when you’ve got very little control over what exactly it’s jabbing?”

Sherlock bristled, her eyes going sharp and flinty. “I have _control_ ,” she spat. “I’m not going to jam something in you with no concern—”

_Oh Christ_. John wanted dearly to roll her eyes, but that had the potential to send Sherlock into a sulk for the rest of the day. “Of course you do.” She tried to keep her voice consoling but not overly so. God forbid Sherlock think she was being coddled. “Sorry. I said that poorly. I just meant that _that_ ”—she pointed at the toy on the computer screen—“for me at least, is a toy for manual sex, not strap-on sex. That’s all.”

But rather than smoothing Sherlock’s feathers, John seemed to have ruffled them even further. With a heavy, disgusted-sounding sigh, Sherlock thrust herself backwards as far as she could go, which wasn’t far. She kicked her legs out straight and made a show of pouting. “Ugh, fine. Then ignore that. All of that. I was wrong.”

“Not really _wrong_. You just didn’t have all the relevant data.”

Scoffing, Sherlock turned her face pointedly away. After watching her a moment, noticing that the tops of her ears had gone pink, John shifted until she was the one with a leg crossed over Sherlock’s and Sherlock’s bum was flat on the chair. Sherlock accepted the change with nothing more than another scoff, more dramatic this time.

“Oh don’t be a prat,” John told her.

On a whim she clasped Sherlock’s hand and pulled it into her own lap. As she’d hoped, the touch startled Sherlock into glancing at her, and whatever she saw in John’s expression apparently reassured her, since her shoulders lost their tension and she didn’t try to pull away.

“C’mon,” John said, tugging gently. “We’re meant to be shopping together, yeah?”

Sherlock didn’t seem concerned at all about what was on the computer screen, though. She didn’t even glance at it as John started to browse. She was more concerned with squirming in her seat until her body was angled towards John again, then curling forwards slightly and resting her cheek on John’s shoulder. The position was so tender, so domestic, that it made John’s chest ache, although she tried to ignore it.

With her free hand, she clicked through pages of realistic and nonrealistic dildos, considered her ideal length and girth, and debated the benefits of texture until Sherlock finally spoke.

“What’s it like?”

John frowned. “What’s what like?”

“Penetration.” Sherlock’s fringe blocked John’s view of her expression, but her tone was thoughtful, with maybe a hint of hesitation. “Obviously it feels different for you than it does for me since you enjoy it. I want to know what it’s like for you.”

John’s thoughts stuttered to a stop. If she’d had a mind palace like Sherlock’s, she might’ve said all the lights had gone off. She hadn’t the first clue how to describe what it felt like. Most of her thoughts in the moment were something along the lines of “Oh that’s nice, that’s good,” and there was no chance Sherlock would be satisfied by an answer so vague.

“Erm.”

John stared at the computer screen. She had a feeling that Sherlock would insist on interrogating her and puzzling out precisely, in excruciating detail, what appealed to her before Sherlock would consent to carry on with the shopping.

So John lifted the computer as carefully as she could one-handed—it tested her wrist strength a bit, but fortunately that was more than up to speed—and balanced it on the chair arm while she considered how to respond.

God. It was a relatively simple question, especially in comparison to some of Sherlock’s others. Why was she having trouble with it?

“Well,” she began. “I mean. When I get turned-on, it—”

Sherlock’s hand, still clasped in one of hers, gave a sudden twitch. John glanced instinctively down at the same time that Sherlock scooted backwards so she had a full view of John’s face. Her expression was shuttered, her focus intense. It was the same sort of face she put on when she was dealing with a suspect.

Oh right, John thought, that was why she was getting tongue-tied. Sherlock bloody Holmes.

“Go on,” said Sherlock. “When you get turned-on, you…?”

John closed her eyes, imagining it. Sherlock tugging John into her lap, Sherlock’s narrow hips between John’s strong thighs, Sherlock’s lips pressing chaste but worshipful kisses along her cleavage, Sherlock cupping the undersides of John’s breasts and squeezing and lifting them, Sherlock closing her lips around a nipple and sucking gently—and through all of it, John would feel…?

“I feel it in my clit first, although it’s just a sort of… general awareness of it, I suppose. Then I feel it in my cunt. It aches a bit, and I’m suddenly very, very aware that there’s a hole there, an empty hole, and that it would be so, so easy to fill it.”

“And then you get wet,” Sherlock said.

John laughed, because fucking hell, wasn’t this meant to be John’s explanation? But as always, Sherlock was right, so John nodded. “And then I get wet.”

“You get _very_ wet.”

Laughing again, John opened her eyes to find that Sherlock’s expression certainly wasn’t shuttered now. It was dark and hungry, her gaze fixed on John’s lips. John licked them and delighted in the way Sherlock’s nostrils flared.

“I do,” John agreed. “And then everything gets slick. Every time I move, my clit slips against my labia, gets nice and swollen and sensitive, and that just makes me wetter.”

Sherlock’s hand twitched again, more strongly this time. John stared down and saw that her own grip had tightened, wrinkling the skin below Sherlock’s knuckles. When she loosened her hold, Sherlock let out a quiet “Nngh” of protest that cut swiftly off when John’s other hand covered her wrist, fingers curled so the tips were pressed into Sherlock’s palm.

_‘My wrists are… sensitive,’_ Sherlock had said. John wondered if they were at all as sensitive as her feet. Tentatively, she traced her thumb up and down Sherlock’s wrist, feeling the swell of her vein just beneath the soft skin.

Sherlock’s whole arm jerked this time, and her lips parted around a sudden gasp.

_That’s a yes_ , John thought, devilishly pleased.

“Muscles relax,” said Sherlock. She sounded choked and slightly winded. “Flesh swells with blood.”

Oh yes, John was feeling very relaxed and blood-swollen between her thighs. She had half a mind to say, ‘Want to feel?’ and shove Sherlock’s hand down her trousers—and Sherlock probably wouldn’t complain—but that would ruin the plan John already had in mind.

“Mmhm,” she said instead. “And by that point, I’m leaking from my cunt and making a mess in my knickers.”

Sherlock moaned. The noise was quiet and breathy but unmistakable. Her legs, already closed, clamped together even more tightly. A sympathetic throb of arousal went through John’s groin at the sight.

Then she realised she was stroking Sherlock’s wrist more vigorously, turning the skin an irritated pink. Grimacing, John lifted Sherlock’s arm and kissed her wrist in apology. She kept the touch light, barely even a brush of her lips against Sherlock’s skin, but Sherlock’s answering groan, followed by another squeeze of her thighs, gave John the encouragement to go a bit further.

She opened her mouth and laid her tongue flat along the vein. This time, Sherlock dropped her head onto the chair back and her hips tipped upwards as though they wanted to give a proper thrust. The movement made the leather creak, which proved a gorgeous complement to her low, shuddery moan.

John fully intended to try licking next, maybe a nice slow swipe up the vein to Sherlock’s elbow, but Sherlock seemed to gather her control again and spoke.

“Go on. A mess in your knickers. Then what?”

Oh. Right. John turned her face, rubbing her cheek against the new wet spot on Sherlock’s wrist.

“Mm,” she said, thinking. “That ache I mentioned earlier? It gets worse. It’s like the itch you get when we haven’t had a case for days. I need something in me. I don’t care what. It feels like I’ll lose my fucking mind if I don’t have something in my cunt, stuffing me up, giving me something to clench around so I’m not just wallowing in my own slick.”

“Does—” Sherlock swallowed thickly as her eyes fluttered closed for a moment. “Does size matter?”

Always that question. John chuckled weakly and laid another chaste kiss to Sherlock’s forearm, which made her knees tremble. “For manual sex, no. For intercourse, I’m not so keen on anything above the national average.”

“Roughly 5.5 to 6.3 inches in length, 4.7 to 5.1 inches in girth,” said Sherlock. Her gaze flickered down to John’s lap, and John had no doubt she was picturing it. Imagining John’s trousers and knickers were gone and her pussy was stretched around an average-sized silicone cock. “And when it’s in you, how does it feel?”

Oh god, John wanted it. She wanted Sherlock’s fingers in her cunt fucking her so hard and fast that people on the pavement would be able to hear the racket they were making.

In a bit, she promised herself. When Sherlock was satisfied, in more ways than one.

“Then I’m like you when you’ve finally got a case. It’s all I care about. There’s nothing more important than feeling something moving in and out. Feeling stretched and then empty, it’s—”

“Getting close to catching a criminal,” Sherlock said. Her eyes were half-lidded and unfocused. “Clever, he keeps slipping away right when I think I’ve got him, and it’s the best case I’ve had in ages.”

John laughed, feeling exhilarated. “Sure, yeah. That works.” God, they were both mad. “And when I come, it’s stronger. I feel it deeper, and it’s.... it’s not enough, usually. I get more sensitive and the muscle contractions feel like… like someone’s wringing pleasure from me like a sponge, like that’s all I’m good for.”

“You want to come again,” said Sherlock. She was nearly panting, her thighs still pressed together and shaking as she squeezed and squeezed and squeezed. John pressed her fingertips into Sherlock’s wrist, massaging the bones beneath. Sherlock’s voice stuttered. “Y-you don’t want to stop.”

“That’s why a fake cock’s loads better than a real one.” John grinned. “Stays hard as long as I need it to.”

Sherlock didn’t grin back, apparently too far gone. With every press of John’s fingers, she moaned deep in her throat, and her expression grew more and more pinched.

“That’s it,” John said. “Fuck me. Make me writhe and sob like a whore. God, Sherlock. I want to come on your cock.”

Sherlock’s eyes closed. Her free hand clutched at the chair arm, gripping so tightly her knuckles went white.

“Will you bite me?” John asked. “A red set of teeth marks on the back of my neck? Maybe a bruise in the shape of your mouth over my collarbone?”

Sherlock went utterly, completely still as she came. Her lips clamped tightly shut, which did little to hold in the string of soft, throaty whines John suspected she’d be hearing in her wet dreams for years.

John stopped massaging Sherlock’s wrists immediately, letting her come down, not wanting to overwhelm her. She leaned close, ready to go in for a cuddle if Sherlock showed even the slightest signs of wanting one.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, her chest heaving as she gasped. Her cheeks were flushed, strands of her fringe stuck to her temples with beads of sweat. Her eyes blinked open, although they still looked unfocused, or at least significantly less sharp than usual.

“Yes what?” John said.

“Yes I’ll bite you.”

Half-turning on her side, Sherlock put her left hand between John’s legs. Instinctively, John thrust into it, felt the pressure and the slick glide of her labia over her clit, and whimpered. It wasn’t Sherlock’s long, lovely fingers in her cunt, but it would do. Hell, it would more than do—it was brilliant. Her thighs fell open, as wide as her trousers would allow, and Sherlock’s hand curled into a fist, pressing firmly just below where John needed it most. John grabbed and moved it, fairly mashing it against her.

“You’ll hardly be able to move,” Sherlock said. She’d caught her breath now and sounded deeply, deeply satisfied. “Your skin between my teeth, your cunt on my cock. You’ll just have to lie still and take it.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” John gasped, humping Sherlock’s fist like mad. Already she could feel a sort of throbbing in her cunt, her orgasm approaching with all the speed and subtlety of a freight train. “Oh fuck, oh—”

She couldn’t keep her back from arching as she came, and by the time she was finished, even her hips were off the chair, pumping frantically upwards and grinding her pussy into Sherlock’s fist, chasing every last wisp of the hot, pounding sensation that made her thighs tense and her toes curl.

When John’s body finally collapsed, she found herself giggling: breathless and giddy and absurdly amused. Neither of them had even got their clothes off.

Sherlock grinned widely back at her, then lowered her head so her cheek was pillowed again on John’s arm. “I told you the chair was big enough,” she said.


End file.
